


The Decepticon Matrix

by Cyberfrost



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Beast Wars, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Convenience Sparkbonds, Decepticon High Command, F/F, F/M, G1 AU, ID theaft, Interfacing affairs, Lack of Medical Ethics, M/M, Murder Mystery, Polybondic relationships, Slavery, non con – attempted assault involving minor, robot gore, scientific amorality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:12:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 48
Words: 166,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9753188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyberfrost/pseuds/Cyberfrost
Summary: The G1 Decepticons leave Cybertron after the escaping Autobots and the Mythical Matrix, but Shockwave decides not to stay behind, going after his two bondmates and leaving a drone in his place.What could possibly go wrong?Feedback is always appreciated.Shockwave-centric fic.





	1. Sparkless

Cybertron, Shockwave's Lab. The purple cyclops was resignedly musing on the order he had just been given.

 

Guardian of Cybertron.

 

He should feel honoured. He was. His Lord had entrusted the guardianship of the whole planet to him.

 

He wasn't angry either: albeit not completely deleted, his emotions had long ago been dulled to a fraction. He operated on logic.

 

It was logical to leave his most skilled Lieutenant in charge. However, all that was required to keep Cybertron Watch, as dead as the planet was, is the wits of a drone.

 

Shaking his head, calculating all the probabilities and possibilities, he was sure he could do better than merely guard Cybertron; how would he fare without access to other decepticons and subjects? How would he do without Scavenger to fetch him materials? Or without the constant and convenient presence of Lord Megatron bringing him energon cubes?

 

Yet, he had to comply and obey.

 

These were the Rules he agreed to.

 

That was the moment Shockwave's unflinching gaze locked on the red visor that couriered him the orders, flickering once.

 

“Shockwave: ready to stay _behind_?”

 

This time Shockwave's optic flared once, side finials standing to attention.

 

“I am the only of our Lord's chosen, reliable enough to be left unsupervised, Soundwave, unlike a certain seeker. His decision to grant me guardianship is mostly… logical.”

 

Both remained mute and immobile. Soundwave finally laughed, a creepy heavily vocoded monotone.

 

“Soundwave: superior.” he stepped close, entering the other mech's EM-field “Shockwave: knows the rules.”

 

Rising to his full height, Shockwave met Soundwave close enough to touch, faceplate to optic.

 

“I am aware.” Shockwave minutely bowed his head, as Soundwave irradiated a pleased flare in his EM-field, continuing to monotone.

 

“Soundwave: essential to outer space operation and troop management. Is in itself an army of spies; Soundwave alone could provide strength enough to co-found and further the Decepticon cause. Soundwave: proud carrier, created life for our Leader, five times. Shockwave: never able to bring a single one. Cassettes need Megatron’s presence.”

 

Shockwave pondered, finally nodding.

 

“Your arguments sound... logical, Soundwave.” he tilted his head to the right. “I acknowledge your superiority. I shall do my part to give my contribution to the cause in any way I deem possible, and the Guardianship of Cybertron will be ensured. Farewell and good journeys.”

 

He bowed his head minutely. Soundwave stopped for a second, unable to read Shockwave's shadowplayed mind, then nodded, bringing their foreheads close and offlining his visor for an instant, leaving.

 

Shockwave, finally alone, turned to his console, ready to send Lord Megatron a personal message.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Personal message incoming from Commander Shockwave, Lord Megatron._

 

“Acknowledged.”

 

Megatron, uploading the recorded message in his own systems, having just received the news that the autobots had sent a ship out of the planet, escaping with the Matrix towards a major source of energon, had taken his decision, putting Shockwave in charge of the planet, and making sure in a few hours his own selected crew would leave after the cowardly fleeing autobots.

 

Running the message in his own systems, he minutely raised the left corner of his lip-plates in annoyance. Great timing, Shockwave, right when he was actually thinking in spending what would be their last moments together before his departure from Cybertron for a long while.

 

Shaking his head, he actually snorted: Shockwave, always working and thinking, of course would prefer to spend the last hours before departure adjusting the Nemesis for the interstellar travel to come, instead of getting close.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_That was close._

 

Shockwave actually released an ex-vent as he got Lord Megatron's positive ping on his choice of working instead of being with him.

 

Locking his Labs with his scientific codes, he put himself to labour: his Plan had been set, and he had innumerable variables to accomplish.

 

First, for him to go into the voyage, after being explicitly told not to, he would need to make sure a decoy Shockwave would remain behind.

 

What better substitute than his own original, real shell, controlled by a drone program?

 

Only problem it rouses, for Shockwave to give up on his original shell, he would need to have his sparkchamber transferred to another one.

 

It was important to not remove the spark from the chamber: this was the sureproof way ot completely resetting a mech’s memories and the spark, once put in a new chamber, has no choice but come to life as a newspark, a blank slate.

 

Leaving the thought behind, taking his time to look around the multitude of corpses on the west wing of his Lab, he certainly had a few choice steps to take.

 

First, shell gender. To a species that prided in identifying mostly with male pronouns, Shockwave owned a staggering amount of exclusively female corpses.

 

Sometimes he asked himself if he hadn't been responsible for the incoming extinction of a 13rd of the species, considering the number of autobot females he often captured, experimented on, tortured and killed.

 

He would have shrugged if he cared.

 

Giving a last perfunctory glance around the room, Shockwave pondered on the sheer irony about having no option but to choose from a female corpse to house his spark.

 

He needed a good acceptable and strong female, sturdy and resistant like the decepticon females had been, before their supposed extinction during the war.

 

Legend says some of the females migrated to male shells, to better survive the Great War, but nothing was ever confirmed.

 

After searching deeper into his collection of dead shells hung from the ceiling and walls, some on slabs, others just left around, Shockwave located the bulkiest and strongest, sitting on the ground, back to the wall, head hung low, portraying very faded black, blue and white greyed out plating, her enforcer officer badge reading Strongarm.

 

He remembered the late Strongarm. She stayed behind as her fellow females left with stolen energon. The enforcer put up some fight, evaded all his shots, launched herself on him, straddled his waist and might even had been successful, weren't Shockwave holding the energon scalpel, providing painful distraction.

 

He neither felt remorse nor satisfaction at how she screamed the moment he stabbed and twisted the blade into her right optic, cutting his way out through her screeching faceplates and blue lips: finally charging his own canon up, he plunged it into her chestplate, shooting point blank right through her sparkchamber, disintegrating her spark in the process.

 

Blinking his single optic to the present, he contemplated the damaged faceplates, circuitry left open, having never had the chance to heal or scar, and damaged optic hanging out, loose, congealed energon pooled inside the socket.

 

She was no Strika or Obsidian, two long deceased decepticon general females, heavily built and armoured, and ruthless, but it would have to do.

 

Welder in hands, he made short work of the gash, fusing the lesions closed into a grey line from right optic through mouthplates towards left jaw, then went for his collection of spare parts, taking one generic blue optic and quickly replacing the broken with a functional yet mismatched one, removing the gelled leftover energon with his fingers, contemplating it for a second, before opening his fuel intake and dumping it in.

 

No wasting of energon allowed in his Tower.

 

Rummaging through the hung corpses, he took hold of a blue visor, plugging it to his main computer, adjusting its HUD readings, making it compatible with his cortical psychic path.

 

_Excellent._

 

Welding the visor over the pair of mismatched blue optics, not bothering with any retraction mechanism, Shockwave nodded to himself.

 

Function restored, now onto covering cosmetic damage.

 

He could take on an undamaged face and replace it. He indeed could.

 

Having suffered empurata and having had his own facial subroutines removed alongside his original head, he felt no logical need of restoring facial function and feeling to his own self.

 

Especially aware of the fact that facial transplants and sensory net rewiring are delicate processes that take time he didn’t have, he went through the opposite pathway, just plain finishing to disconnect the sensory and movement net in the faceplates.

 

Taking a vocoder from storage, he adjusted it to emit a neutral monotone, connecting it directly to the shell's neural net, allowing for speech without usage of the mouthplates.

 

Finally, locating the manual override and making the frame's own battlemask slip in place, Shockwave nodded: he couldn't have done better if he tried.

 

It would almost be like being his own current self, no facial subroutines to worry about.

 

Opening the mask back and linking the vocoder to its insides, Shockwave closed it before the blue lips, then welded shut the central seam, effectively making both the visor and battlemask irremovable, finally adding an outer, practical intake, connected to the oesophagus, just like his own, at the base of the neck, so he could dump fuel in.

 

Facial function done and ready.

 

Onto interface panels. The frame owns a port-only jacking system, a single pliable blue port into a white array with constricting callipers and a single non-pressurising upper node, inspired on Solus Prime’s frametype.

 

Staring at the array and briefly opening the folds to find an intact seal, without a single hint of disappointment, he recalled on the day he had been captured and kept prisoner, put in line for Empurata.

 

His captors said they would be kind enough to give him the right to a last time.

 

A last meal through the mouthplates, and a last interface.

 

Being a mercurial senator and being intelligent enough to know exactly what would happen after the interface, Shockwave recalled being given one other prisoner to take.

 

He knew they would observe him, then take away what he liked the most.

 

For that, he made the immense sacrifice in completely ignoring his own port and making sure the wardens would know how fond of his cable he was (he wasn’t).

 

Once he awoke after the procedure, he took notice of the irrefutable fact that the wardens picked on his bait.

 

His Empurata comprised of not only his head, one optic, and both hands; it included the complete removal of the transfluid tank, severing of the sensory net and functions associated with his cord, turning it impossible to pressurise and making it an unfeeling, eternally slotted, useless reminder right above the perfectly functional port.

 

Having always preferred the more receptive role, he commended his previous, illogical self for making the rational, logical decision in deceiving the wardens.

 

As his mind wandered in his past, Shockwave pondered if he shouldn’t just give up on the defective array anyway. This female one fitted his preferences well.

 

His mostly illogical bondmates, Soundwave and Lord Megatron, however, would certainly find him thoughtful if he kept the original array, just for their sake, and it would earn him points with his Lord.

 

Having his decision taken for himself then, he locked up the low pelvic single-port female array out of sight, no intention of showing it to his two bonded for now: Only his conscious override would be able to open it.

 

Shockwave nodded to himself then, severing the few sensory links left in his own interface panel, making very quick work of it with the welder, removing his own body's outer panelling and cabling and port system, delicately deposing them on the bench.

 

Gash open in his ventral plates, exposing the connection to his energon system, electric system and spark chamber, he finished welding the cauterised ends together, to avoid deadly leakage, finally closing his ventral plates shut, turning to work with the whole interface array, his own interface array, in his slab.

 

Shockwave contemplated his array, registering on his log that now his frame was officially neutered.

 

On a purely intellectual level, he even admired the greater clarity of though he had now his interface array no longer pinged him. His work might even benefit from such indifference, weren't he mated and thus logically expected to keep it.

 

Finally done, observing detached the purple interface panel installed into the female shell right above the original panel, each at a separate ventral plate, pinging to life as he manually tested its functions, Shockwave shut the panels and closed it away, focusing on his next task.

 

Function. Visually scooping from his least damaged frames, knowing the tendency of the autobots to link form to function, he searched from those dead whose function mirrored his own talents. Sadly he lacked deceased science officer shells.

 

Since he intended to continue scientifically capable, he turned his search for the medical frames: Afterall, medics were an acceptable segment of the Science Caste.

 

Locating two flimsy Paradron medics with no alternate mode, Shockwave nearly hummed to himself: since he lacked scientists, these would serve for harvesting of medical parts, including their very hands and lateral medical ports.

 

Proceeding to dissect the four forged hands out of their corpses, he microjoined the two right hand's wiring into the shell's own right hand, connecting them together, then repeating the procedure into the left: finally, logging himself into his future shell via cortical psychic path, he tried for the double sensitivity of the medically modified hands, satisfied with everything he felt: there would be no medic with hands more sensitive and customised than his own.

 

Now removing the whole medical port system from the two medics, he joined both together and also implanted them on: his cortical psychic patch would work twice as fast with the 2.0 port he adapted and installed.

 

The medical hands and ports would amount to nothing if they weren't connected to a proper medical or scientist's processor: hacking the cranial casing wide open, finally tearing through the last remains of the paradron frames, he joined their two processors into the enforcer's neural module, putting them to run together, satisfied at the processing efficiency he achieved.

 

Innards completed.

 

Now onto covering up the whole mess.

 

Heavy armour. Even being the bulkiest female shell he owned, it still measured only slightly more than two thirds of Lord Megatron's height.

 

He couldn't work around size, but he would add mass.

 

Nodding to himself, he applied a secondary and a tertiary layer of armour, covering up most of the blue and black plating with white pieces cannibalised from the two medical frames (who now rested as small scrap on the ground), making his future shell bulkier and heavier, and specially adding his signature protruding chestplate, feet, full thighs and hips.

 

Shockwave rationally knew his own strong qualities, and was very much intent in replicating them on his future shell.

 

Flight mechanism. Shockwave remembered when he still used to own a flying alt mode, before Empurata and his turn of spark, when he took on his gunformer mode and installed his decepticon antigravs.

 

Flight was an advantage he didn't intend to lose, Shockwave pondered as he turned the shell on its stomach: a cold-constructed rotary motor and paddles in the back would have to do, since this shell could not receive default decepticon antigravs and thrusters would be impossible to come by in a hurry.

 

Weapons. Shockwave rather likes shooting at the range, but he was aware he was rubbish. Looking through the shells, he removed a retractile chain and hook from one of them, taking it in his right arm, feeling for its weight, swinging the hook once and nodding appreciatively. Satisfied, he hastily fused the device to the shell's ventral plates, right under the now armoured chestplate, avoiding the rotor. Acceptable for an autobot medic: enough for his aiming skills.

 

Paintjob. The paradron frames that provided the outer plating of the shell were mostly white, that covered up most of Strongarm's blues and blacks on the outside: it resulted in an acceptable colour scheme for a medical frame.

 

Nodding, recalling the lost days when he used to change his own colours frequently, before the Institute, Shockwave minutely worked in detailing his own interface array – now onto the female shell – to the last micron in chrome, magenta and decepticon purple.

 

As soon as he finished the latest touches, and painted the last purple medical cross in the shell's shoulders, leaving it without any faction markings, he powered the shell up with one energon cube into his systems, from his own ration: its engines hummed in the silence of the lab, ready to receive his spark.

 

He shook his head, waiting for the Drone Control Program to finish compiling his own memories and files into an automatic self-responding system with a ping in his mind.

 

Contemplating for the last time his own ancient systems, not knowing when or if he would return, he put his own mind to run on automatic, shutting off his connections to his own spark, everything finally breaking into silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Breaking the silence at the Nemesis' bridge, already embarked, Megatron spoke his official orders for Shockwave, left behind on Cybertron.

 

“Take care of our planet in my absence, my Guardian. I count on you, Shockwave.”

 

The now empty shell nodded on the communication screen, spitting loyalty, disconnecting away coldly, as Soundwave, unreadable, mute and immobile, observed Megatron nod back.

 

Meanwhile, at the recesses of the ship, locked inside the cargo bay, low-powered while connected at the Nemesis' systems, Shockwave's sparkchamber, transferred to the autobot body, rested functional, his mind however locked into silence and darkness, slowly integrating to the new shell.

 

He had already changed his own spark-frequency to match the one of the deceased Strongarm, a feat only he, Shockwave, was able to do. It made him ideal into infiltration missions, a skill unfortunately his Lord rarely told him to use. In truth, Megatron rather preferred to keep Shockwave away from the public optic, telling him to avoid dangerous missions, all the while lacing his arguments with logic about not being able to lose his most trusted scientist and most reliable lieutenant.

 

Shockwave operated on logic, but wasn't stupid, and deep down he knew it wasn't only Science.

 

That was the way his master cared.

 

As such, aiming not to worry his Lord unnecessarily, he made sure the pod was tampered enough to not give away his presence as a fully functional spark. Soundwave might have been able to pinpoint his location otherwise, and the plan would go to waste.

 

Knowing he would have to know what was going on outside of the stasis-pod, Shockwave started working on the connections of his sensory net to the Nemesis' cameras and audials. Soon the whole Nemesis would be a surrogate indirect shell for his spark, and he would be able to personally monitor everything, from the cameras, to the audio, to the doors.

 

The things he would be able to do as the Nemesis herself.

 

His plans were cut short however.

 

Shockwave, brilliant scientist Shockwave, managed to set his systems in synch with the Nemesis on, precisely when the Decepticons were fighting the Ark, after the transwarp bridge had taken them from Cybertron towards a primitive, two-mooned, planetoid.

 

Instead of panicking, though, Shockwave, cold, sparkless, encompassing, all powerful, powered by the Heart of Cybertron within the Nemesis, having practically become the Nemesis herself, using his advanced intelligence and logic, reacted as anyone would.

 

He quickly, hastily, haphazardly searched the ship's controls for the weapons, and FIRED!!!

 

Too bad Shockwave can't shoot for shit, and as the decepticons accused themselves of mangling the attack with really bad aim and bad shoot, Megatron glitch-slapped Starscream: it had to be the military air-commander's fault!

 

After that, everything went to the Well, the Decepticons leaving for the Ark, intent in fighting and winning, and the Nemesis, out of control and fuming, spiralled down into the ocean, disappearing in the smoke, the barnacles and the brine.


	2. You can't shoot for shit, Shockwave!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave puts his plan in motion...

Shockwave spent the next four million years alone, trapped within the pod, only the Heart of Cybertron capable of keeping the basic subroutines of the Nemesis ON, and his autobot shell alive.

 

He witnessed strange creatures creep upon his borrowed halls, thought he felt _Ravage_ and even _Soundwave_ , strolling at some point, then _his Lord_ Megatron himself, albeit muted into another body, then a huge blast, and finally getting surrounded by dirt, soil, and forests, and mud, and many and many layers of organic muck from this wretched planet, until the current days.

 

All along he watched passively, for he wasn't exactly willing to try anything to leave his predicament: he had sunk the Nemesis down the ocean, _someone_ else rose it out, then sunk it down the rainforest ground, and after all this mess, Shockwave knew he was rightfully meant for dire punishment the moment his Lord found him out, and he would, as soon as Shockwave made himself available.

 

Not being fond of suffering, he had four million years to think on a means to avoid punishment by turning a dire situation into a good one.

 

The way he saw things, he would need nothing short of the fragging _**Matrix**_ herself to be even remotely forgiven.

 

Hmmm.

 

Shockwave, locked within the stasis pod, would have patted himself in the rotors if he could: focusing on the autoguns, he aimed a couple of them into the stasis-pod panelling and shot once, missing and hitting the opposite walls.

 

He really, really, should give up trying to shoot.

 

After a couple more of shots, he settled for cutting the power supply from the Heart of Cybertron to the pod, hoping the emergency unlocking protocols would kick in to release the shell.

 

As he mused on his chain of mistakes, as unemotionally as possible, suddenly he was writhing and trashing (absolutely _not_ in an emotional way, it was merely self-preservation!), ripping out cables as he floated within the nanite-enriched fluids circling his autobot shell, and finally rotated on his axis, stopping before the pod's lid.

 

Before leaving the pod, intent on NOT getting killed by the autoguns, he restored his original decepticon spark signature. Nodding to himself at thinking this through, he finally caught the hook from his chain and brutally dug it through the central seam of the pod's lid.

 

Fluid streamed through the freshly open hole on the outside, then flooded out, as the hydraulics whirred and the halves of the lid flew open, Shockwave's autobot shell falling on the ground with all the grace a heavy-armoured frame could, on his knees and battlemask, in a shower of liquid light.

 

Standing up, he removed the hook out, observing it retract. He should have thought out a better use of subspace for that chain instead of mechanical recoiling.

 

In hindsight, he had planned poorly the whole endeavour. He regretted having acted out of trying to prove a _point_ , and not merely by logic.

 

Not that he could change the past now, or would admit he could have done better.

 

Blue visor flickering twice, he turned to the Nemesis' systems, running diagnostics. The ship was buried within the rainforest, partially underground, nearly whole, and it in itself was a small miracle. The upper cloister was functional and held an elevator mechanism meant to connect it to the ceiling of the repair-bay back on Cybertron.

 

It took Shockwave a few earth months to adapt said elevator to raise a platform above the level of the forest canopies. Mechanics was something he could do, and he did well. Setting up rationing routines, he managed to optimise the energy consumption from the power-core Heart of Cybertron so that the ship wouldn't run out of power.

 

The only thing he lacked now was an alternate mode.

 

The hurried job he made into the autobot enforcer turned medic made sure he had a rotor, a chain and hook, insignificant subspace, and heavy plating. After much trying he managed to physically latch into an underground communications cable of what he would consider a military Intranet in the Brazilian rainforest, from where he did manage to learn the portuguese language and download a few interesting military blueprints.

 

Finally, he settled for a mode compatible to his combined abilities, the EC130.

 

As such, almost a year since Shockwave awoke, he glided over the canopies besides the Amazon River, the gleam of an outstretched chain glowing, the sound of helicopter rotary blades echoing in the night.

 

* * *

 

The nights echoed with the phantom roar of rotors from a pilot-less helicopter: Amazonian cattle farmers and natives would swear for ages to come that a phantom machine flew above their heads, transforming into the phantom _Mapingüari_ , a giant white one-eyed demon with a glowing _mouth_ in the middle of its chest that scared their cattle away and tore through their fuel _disappearing_ with it in clear intent to restore the forest to its natural state, every single night.

 

Shockwave, having become a local legend, seized the impunity to finish compiling efficient data triangulation by honing his own subterfuge skills, now in _spanish_ , tracking down an oil-pumping operation in Venezuela, where the autobots were making the security to prevent the decepticons from raiding the oil into energon.

 

Watching intently, taking his time, Shockwave sneaked into the site, making sure to set a small portion of the nearing rainforest on fire with his own fuel.

 

Dark smoke filled the area, as the autobots started evacuating the humans: arriving in helicopter-mode, purple crosses gleaming in the sunlight as soon as he emerged from the fog, Shockwave made sure to land and open his doors wide, as unsuspecting humans stepped in. Checking into the protectobots rescue frequency, broadcast to the whole autobot fleet on site, he learned about where to leave his human charges, heading there.

 

The key is to _promenade_ as if you have complete _rights_ of being there in first place. No hesitation. No doubts. No fear!

 

“HALT!”

 

He would have root-moded and _protocol-_ raised his hands up behind his neck, if he didn't have humans within. Clearing his vocoder, he acted on his role, speaking through the synthesiser.

 

“Autobot Enforcer Cadet Strongarm presenting for duty.”

 

Blades, neurotically circling around, poked him in the purple crosses.

 

“Enforcer. With _medical_ crosses. _Purple_ medical crosses. Are you _kidding_ me???”

 

Shockwave kept speaking.

 

“I do not joke, Officer. I was part of the Cybertronian Resistance, once. I had been experimented on and forcibly had my function and outer appearance modified by Shockwave to serve as _decepticon_ medic, hence the purple crosses. Having managed to escape his control, I fled through the Space-Bridge and logically ended up on this planet. I request to be reported to my former superior officer, Commander Officer Prowl, for clearance and return of my original functions as Cadet _Strongarm_ , the autobot enforcer.”

 

At that the protectobots eyed themselves, pinging for Optimus Prime. First Aid helped the humans out of Shockwave, as at gunpoint, Blades ordered his transformation, stasis-cuffing him until debriefing could be followed through, comming base back and suggesting setting up the brig.

 

* * *

 

At the brig, Shockwave, locked inside the _Strongarm_ shell, waited patiently: he knew it would take time to gather the autobot's trust.

 

Having requested to report back to Strongarm's former _boss_ , Prowl, he knew by now the autobot SIC was using his battle computer to his full extent to calculate on all the variables involved in his lost enforcer's return to the fold.

 

Taking a fleeting glance to the mirror on the wall, aware that it should probably be from where he was being watched, he kept his cool and patience: whoever waited four millions years locked inside a pod, could wait a few hours and days now.

 

Behind the mirror, arms folded, Prowl watched and observed the heavily modified _Strongarm_ , optics focused on the _purple_ crosses, indeed calculating a myriad of possibilities.

 

To a start, it was hard to believe Strongarm's version.

 

First, everybody knew of the decepticon's _disdain_ towards females, especially female autobots. Third, if Shockwave wanted a _medic_ , why modify an _enforcer_ into one, when it was infinitely easier to just enslave one or two paradron medics to work, instead of going through the trouble of customising and re-plating a clearly non-standard frame?

 

Maybe the _hardiness_ and sturdy body of Cadet Enforcer Strongarm (whose features and female characteristics – already few to start with – were concealed) were key in Shockwave's choice of shell: the paradron medics were flimsy and fragile and certainly unable to take the rough decepticon handling like his former subordinate did.

 

So, logic dictates that Shockwave probably had no better option of mechs to _violate_ like this, and Strongarm was specifically chosen because she was hardy and stocky and the tallest female Prowl ever came across in autobot ranks: her scarce _femininity_ was concealed to mimicry a male shell, only the protruding chest and wide hip-plates denouncing her true _spark._

 

Not to mention that supposedly her body had been upgraded to incorporate medical scanners, and maybe even a processor, in order to properly be a medic, and Prowl could only wonder how it had affected Strongarm beyond appearances.

 

Pursing his lip-plates, he shook his head: Shockwave meddled in Strongarm's head, full medical clearing on her functions being mandatory, both for viruses, potential sleeper-agent programs, listing on kind of features modified from her default body, deep scanning of her spark and comparison to databanks, and for _that_ he would need Ratchet.

 

* * *

 

Ratchet received the comm with annoyance.

 

Sighing at the huge amount of accumulated _work_ he had on his hands, deeply regretting having left Cybertron without taking a single medical apprentice altogether, having as fully chevroned colleague only the protectobot First Aid, still a newbie however to all standards, he stood up, stretching his tired struts.

 

Prowl required his presence at the brig.

 

Getting there at the secure room, he slowed his steps as he took on the unknown mech sitting placidly inside the cell, finally turning his stare to his superior officer.

 

“Why am I here? Don't you know I'm overtaxed and understaffed? Who is that?”

 

Prowl minutely bowed his head, handing Ratchet a datapad.

 

“Enforcer Strongarm, cybertronian autobot resistance. Victim of an _experiment_ by Shockwave. To put it simply, he turned her into a medic, but she claims she was able to escape.”

 

Ratchet nodded, taking on the enforcer's file and briefly reviewing it, fleeting the occasional glance through the fake mirror, as Prowl took his time explaining he needed her analysed and medically cleared before he would come to Optimus Prime.

 

Knowing how Prowl was meticulous and careful, yet a bit over-the-top with his battle computer statistics, Ratchet groaned: nothing against Strongarm, but he hated the prospect of having to put his _servos_ into Shockwave's handiwork.

 

Cybertron's _Guardian_ was rumoured to have developed increasing madness over the millennia since his isolation on Cybertron, confirmed by Elita-1 the day she crossed through the Decepticon free-for-all Space Bridge, often talking to himself grandiosely, accusing people of destroying his house, praising his Lord Megatron, commanding with brutal inefficiency an army of drones, and shooting autobots with abysmal _imprecision_ during energon raids.

 

Connecting briefly through the Ark's systems, he reached his patient files at the medbay, downloading Strongarm's archives, taking one deep in-vent and nodding to Prowl.

 

Before anything, he had to confirm that Strongarm was _Strongarm_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Strongarm.”

 

Shockwave raised his head towards the tired voice, staring, standing up and minutely dipping his head down in a side tilt.

 

“Chief Medical Officer.”

 

Ratchet compared the voice pattern recorded in Strongarm's file. _Unmatched_.

 

“You have been provided a vocoder.”

 

Shockwave nodded, giving a not-answer.

 

“A neutral voice was more _logical_ for my continued function without harassment among the decepticons.”

 

Ratchet grunted, unsurprised. He _knew_ very well the general prejudice that cybertronians of all factions had towards the direct representatives of _Solus Prime_.

 

Flaring his hand scanner _on_ and approaching his open palm towards the energon bars, running a medical override and shutting them down, Ratchet cleared his voicebox.

 

“Strongarm. I'm here to be sure you are _you_ , since Shockwave meddled with your shell, and maybe even your spark.”

 

Shockwave nodded.

 

“It is only logical that you investigate, Chief Medical Officer. I will comply. What is it you require of me?”

 

“Is it true you have been _modified_ to become a medical-grade frame?”

 

“Affirmative. I was very much aware of every single modification done to my shell, conscious all along the process, including the visor and permanently welded faceplate concealments. The blue of the visor was supposed to symbol I was not a _proper_ decepticon.”

 

Ratchet nodded, disgusted. Practically _Empurata_. Shockwave wasn't known for being kind.

 

“I require a medical connection for further evaluation, Strongarm. I hope it's ok.”

 

Shockwave nodded, opening his lateral panel and displaying the 2.0 medical port, his spooled _cortical psychic patch_ dormant right beside it.

 

Taking a split-second longer than necessary looking at the purple colour scheme, Ratchet unspooled his own lateral medical cable, plugging in.

 

Visor darkening for a split-second, he was met with a neutral ping and _handshake_ , Strongarm's files opening wide with firewalls down. Openly checking the medical files, reviewing briefly the past data stored on her memory banks, since her times being forged as an enforcer of the autobot forces, her progress through ranks, down to the day she faced, fought and lost into a body-to-body struggle at the labs to Shockwave himself.

 

* * *

 

Shockwave freely shared the bulk of Strongarm's old stored memories, having modified the files with _fake_ hazy details of a life under enslavement, working under orders and repairing decepticons, occasionally serving as assistant and test-subject.

 

Allowing his own memory banks to remain hidden as he overflowed Ratchet's passively with the autobot's own, Shockwave successfully diverted his potential prying, recording all along the way he moved through _his_ systems, carefully and meticulously, finally reaching the boundaries of the decepticon's own _spark._

 

Pulsing his spark frequency through their link slowly, calmly, exactly the way Strongarm's spark used to be, Shockwave focused on the readings in his own HUD, having managed to use Ratchet's own medical cable, via his superior 2.0 port, partially as a reverse cortical psychic patch and projecting the medic's own systems with acceptance and resignation.

 

Spark frequency. _Matched._

 

Reading on medically relevant info, Ratchet made sure to check on potential _violation_ of physical frame, beyond forced function and form reassignment.

 

For one, he was glad her original interface array was not only intact with original factory seals on, but also medically locked: he hated dealing with _rape_.

 

Finding however the presence of a foreign unsealed double-purpose array installed, he turned his optics to her.

 

“How are you taking, as _female_ , having this additional _male_ array? Have you been forced into taking this particular modification as well?”

 

Shockwave stared without reaction, briefly glancing down his closed ventral plates, providing an evasive reply.

 

“I believe it is time for me to clarify one _personal_ detail, Chief Medical Officer. Since I had been bodily _modified_ and had to live among the decepticons, I have gotten around to identifying myself by the use of _male_ oriented pronouns, and I find it highly preferable for my current mindset.”

 

Gaping for an instant, Ratchet finally nodded, his medical cable disconnecting in a jolt.

 

* * *

 

Jolting out of the medical hub they were locked into, Shockwave physically braced himself against the wall of the cell, Ratchet shaking his head and resuming the live analysis of Strongarm's health bill and upper processor evaluation.

 

“You... are medically clean. No suspicious mods, databanks or potential sleeper code located. All you have of _wrong_ is a medically _damaged_ spark.”

 

Shockwave minutely dipped his head, taking official confirmation that his shadowplayed spark was indeed _damaged_ , sitting back on the brig's berth.

 

“I shall wait for the High Command's decision on my fate then, Chief Medical Officer.”

 

Shockwave made a show of powering down the visor, watching Ratchet through the corner of both optics underneath it, as the medic stared for an instant still, bringing the energon bars back on and making his leave.

 

* * *

 

Leaving the brig with Ratchet, Prowl went for Optimus Prime's office, hoping the Prime would take the right decision.

 

Having by now explained Strongarm's version of her existence among the decepticons, Prowl observed Optimus stare thoughtfully for a second, absently tapping the desk right beside a beautifully ornate life-size replica of the Matrix.

 

“What is the warranty we have that Strongarm was _not_ sent as a spy and sleeper agent?”

 

Ratchet unsubspaced a datapad, handing it.

 

“I have undergone through all _his_ personal memories and files. They are locked under medical code on my own systems, but this resumed log shows no evidence of trigger programs or hidden comm, not a single trace of attempted communication with the decepticons.”

 

Optimus side-glanced the medic, taking the datapad on and staring down, skimming through it.

 

“I was under the _impression_ Strongarm is _female_ , Ratchet. Why did you refer to her as _him_?”

 

“It had been _his_ request to no longer be called and treated as female. I suppose undergoing forced body modification like the one he had is explanation enough for such a change of spark. You do remember how _Arcee_ dealt with having been assigned a _female_ role by Jhiaxus. She took a long while to accept being referred to as _female_.”

 

Prowl nodded, _recalling_ , as Optimus sighed loudly.

 

“Very well. So you medically cleared _him_. Can he return immediately to the ranks, Prowl?”

 

“Optimus Prime. _Former_ Enforcer Cadet Strongarm, and the key is _former_ , no longer owns the proper mods and structure for his previous function. Even if he had them intact, I cannot take him under my service anymore, especially because I still calculate a 94% chance that he will be a liability, and I cannot risk our security. Red Alert would certainly back me. I vote for sending him back to Cybertron to serve as medic at the resistance.”

 

Nodding this time, Optimus caught a blank datapad, ready to fill the order to send Strongarm to Cybertron at the first available spacebridge window.

 

“Stop.”

 

Stopping his typing, Optimus raised his optics, squinting.

 

“Yes, Ratchet? Anything you would like to _request_?”

 

Tensing, the medic straightened his shoulders.

 

“I wish to _vouch_ for Strongarm under my tutorage. I can make better use of his potential services here on Earth.”

 

Blinking twice and twitching minutely the corner of his left optic, Prowl shifted a glance between Ratchet and the sternly squinting Prime.

 

“Didn't you hear about Prowl's assertion that Strongarm is a security liability?”

 

“Under his line of work, I agree. But not under mine: The only _secrets_ a medic keeps are the ones concerning his patient's files.”

 

He opened his own red hands, scratched with use, displaying them palms-up to his superiors.

 

“Not to mention I could indeed use an extra _pair_ of medically coded hands. I will supervise his skills and learning curve, and if he can pass the Academy's exams, I can even _chevron_ him. He had received _forged_ medical apparatus, from hands to scans, to special cables and ports. I hate to admit but Shockwave made a _brilliant_ work on this frame and it would just be a waste of a _resource_ to send him away.”

 

Optimus and Prowl shared a long glance. Optimus spoke.

 

“You, Ratchet, are aware that by _vouching_ , if...”

 

“ _When._ ” Prowl added with a scowl.

 

“... _if_ he proves to be a _security_ hazard, you will receive the same punishment and consequences. He is your complete responsibility. You have one _year_ to train and evaluate Strongarm as you see fit, and at the end of this period, I believe you will be able to report on his clearance as a medic.”

 

Ratchet had seen nothing dangerous on Strongarm's files, and the temptation to finally have a new _apprentice_ and assistant was just too good to let go, not to mention Optimus’ words reeked of _challenge_ , and Ratchet wasn’t a mech used to shy away from one.

 

“I accept the terms, _Prime_. In one year the autobots shall have another fully _chevroned_ medic in the ranks. I will collect my _charge_ with your permission.”

 

Optimus nodded, dismissing him, as Prowl kept both arms folded, clearly unamused, planning to have words with his superior as soon as the medic was out.


	3. A medic in the House

Out of the brig, under the medic's responsibility, Shockwave walked side by side besides the sturdy doctor, standing almost to the autobot's height, his paddles rotating slowly at each step.

  


The plan was going exactly as he had expected: he knew Prowl would _not_ accept Strongarm's return, and logically the chief medical officer was his best option for the while.

  


Being steered down to the medbay, Shockwave stepped in right behind the medic, taking on full sight the four slabs, and the general controlled chaos of the bay, clean yet slightly out of order.

  


“I detect you can indeed use my help, Chief Medical Officer. If you will allow me, I will start cataloguing and working.”

  


Ratchet nodded, observing _Strongarm_ walk towards one of the slabs, taking a box of bolts and beginning to sort them by size.

  


* * *

 

 

Sizing up and down the autobot CMO with both optics, under the visor, Shockwave mechanically sorted the bolts with a fraction of his processors, his black hands silently working almost of their own volition at feeling and detecting minute fractures that would render the bolts useless, taking these for melting and reshaping afterwards.

  


Staring down his current _responsibility_ , Ratchet sighed, heading to one other slab and working on an optic system: it would take some getting used to a quiet companion, after having for so long as his immediate student back on Cybertron such a flamboyant creature like _Knock-Out_ and his gleaming red-buffed plates.

  


* * *

 

  


A pair of proudly gleaming red-buffed plates came into view, as the white face flashed a killer smile to the mirror: Knock-Out, nodding to himself, having just set up his _mod_ shop on Cybertron, Velocitronian grounds, could hardly wait for the few left underground racers to come.

  


Belonging to the Neutrals, very aware of his status as a _not_ chevroned medic, but still the best the ragtag racers could afford, he made sure to hide his medical operation under an aesthetic _modder_ 's guise.

  


His doors opened slowly, as he turned to greet the first potential customer of the day.

  


“Hi!”

  


He sighed. Not _this_ racer.

  


“Moonracer. What the slag are you doing in _my_ shop? Don't you have a certain purple cyclops to torment and raid? What would your _boss_ Arcee say?”

  


Moonracer shook her head, practically sauntering to the slab, sitting cross-legged.

  


“I recall you promised me a _mod_.”

  


“Well, my little spark-split _twin_ and beloved ex- _assistant_ , you made your choice clear when you left to compose the autobot resistance. No mods for you.”

  


Moonracer wriggled both feet out of the slab.

  


“If you had just come with me to them, we might even have followed the autobots to Earth, and you could have been fully chevroned by now.”

  


Ducking a wrench, she stared as it clanked on the ground.

  


“You certainly don't deny where you leaned the craft from.”

  


Knock-Out growled, clenching his delicate taloned hands.

  


“I have no interest in this war. It's bad for my finish.”

  


* * *

 

  


“I am finished.”

  


Ratchet blinked out of his stupor, currently dozing, heads on his forearms sitting beside the slab, not recalling how he ended up like this. Checking on his inner clock, he cursed out loud.

  


“Strongarm! You couldn't let me recharge for so long!”

  


Shockwave glared at him, reactionless.

  


“Chief Medical Officer. I have not been provided a list of your schedule, or even a general guideline of how to act in your presence. I made my best by sorting parts while you recharged. Obviously, had there been an emergency, I would have promptly called you. As it was however, I could indeed organize and file many scattered items into a logical sequence and storage structure: heed the data on the full categorisation.”

  


He handed him a datapad. Ratchet absently caught it, subspacing it.

  


“At least one of us had been useful. Since you are under my apprenticeship for the year, I can’t let you take part on the alone shifts yet, so you must come with me. First Aid will assume the bay for the next shift. I'll show you my quarters.”

  


Shockwave nodded, falling on step with his superior, ready to go.

  


* * *

 

 

“Do you really have to go?”

  


First Aid sighed.

  


“Yes, Blades. If you won't help me, then I'll just take longer to get there, then return.”

  


Blades shook his head, finally raising both arms in annoyance.

  


“Fine! I'll haul you there!”

  


Helicopter-moding and releasing his tow cable, carefully unsubspacing the parking platform, he hovered above him as First Aid ambulance-moded and drove into it, finally both lifting off and heading out.

  


* * *

 

  


Out of sight, finally, Shockwave, (paddles removed from his rotor and placed against the corner of the wall) lying on his back on a spare berth, stared at the ceiling, processors deep in thought.

  


He had been properly fuelled by good quality volcanic energon, taking notes on how distracted the CMO seemed when Shockwave opened his neck intake and ubsubspaced a metallic straw with a flexible end, fitting the sharp end at the cube and the flexible tube within the fuel line, setting it to drain the mid-grade energon at a slow rate.

  


It would be a _long_ period of time before he could even attempt getting close to the Prime and the autobot Matrix, but he was positive it would pay off in the end. He just had to play the part of the dutiful assistant, efficient medic, competent technician, roles easy enough to follow, easier than navigating autobot senate politics like he did in his past.

  


One year would roll away easily.

  


Finally dimming his optics and the visor, Shockwave prepared to recharge, unable to stop thinking about the moment he would set his hands at the Matrix and he could return, victorious, to his Lord, his audials filled with the _lulling_ rattle of ill-kept engines on the other side of the room, the last image reaching his processors being that of the soundly recharging Ratchet.

 

* * *

 

Ratchet came out of recharge in a jolt with sirens klaxon-roaring on the base.

  


On step to the medbay as his processors awoke, he had his wrench out in hands even before consciousness fully kicked in, staring dazedly at the middle of the room.

  


First Aid, with a build slighter and smaller than his own, was practically arms inside Ironhide's chassis, the red mech under medical stasis, his chestplates shattered. Growling, Ratchet plunged in together, almost expelling his subordinate away.

  


“When did the decepticons attack???”

  


First Aid minutely stalled, turning his visor and faceplates to the ceiling.

  


“What decepticons? _Blaster_ happened! They were discussing, then finally Blaster caught his _blaster_ , aimed point blank and shot!”

  


Ratchet blinked stupidly, shaking his head as he recalled Blaster and Ironhide's _feud_ : once, at the start of the war, they had been together, sworn to a sparkbond that never happened. Four creations later, Blaster convinced himself it would never be, and ever since they fell apart, the autobot tapedeck displayed a mean temper, lashing _exclusively_ on the arms specialist whenever he felt provoked, which recently in the latest millennia had been a _lot_.

  


Perfectly understandable, if Ratchet were to be just: Ironhide was never abusive, but his behaviour fell under the category of neglect, always making excuses up to never honour the promised official _sparkbonding_ , so the lashing out was certainly _fair_.

  


That didn't mean Ratchet liked having to fix up their _mess_.

  


Growling and grumbling in a wonderful display of his best berthside manners, Ratchet, hands on autopilot closing fuel lines, never noticed _Strongarm_ slowly come into view, approaching his battlemask down with a tilt, unceremoniously obstructing his view while glaring at the exposed insides and unsubspacing a datapad, taking notes.

  


“What an _interesting_ test-subject. His spark spins 38% slower than it should. Is it natural or result of repeated trauma? I advise against application of sedatives otherwise the spark might gutter out. Unless, obviously, it is an experiment to find the optimal rate of sedation possible before a weakened spark _yields_ , in which case I recommend more test-subjects for a double-blind prospective study with a control group.”

  


First Aid briefly stalled as Ratchet jolted his glare from the wiring to Shockwave's _fascinated_ visual exploration.

  


“Strongarm. Ironhide is a _patient_ , not a test-subject. He needs fixed. We are not _trying_ different sedative doses!”

  


Shockwave blinked his visor once, staring between the slain autobot and his fellow medics.

  


“It seems a waste of an _opportunity_. At least nine more subjects and we could have a stable _cohort_ for a proper clinical essay. Imagine the databanks we could fill. Are you entirely sure you do not wish to take this experiment a step further?”

  


First Aid blinked his visor, EM-field flaring in exasperation: Ratchet threw his wrench in Strongarm's head, visor minutely dimming as it clanked away to the ground.

  


“You and I are having _ethics_ classes after we fix Ironhide! Hand me back that wrench before I turn your spark casing into one! Now!!”

  


Dipping his helm slowly in a nod, taking the wrench and getting closer, Shockwave gleams his visor with something akin to _satisfaction_ , approving the authoritative display, taking on Ratchet's stern grimacing features as he worked focused on the energon soaked innards, almost feeling like _home_.

 

* * *

  


“I'm home!”

  


Chromia flopped her tired feet on the centrepiece in the middle of their main room, throwing her body on the sofa as Arcee came into view, shaking her head at the display.

  


“Where's the energon? Did you manage to get some?”

  


Chromia shook her head, arms lazily spread at the back of the sofa, optics offline.

  


“Looks like today Cybertron's _guardian dog_ was too triggerhappy to my tastes: he was in gun mode atop his Tower, aiming everywhere and randomly trying to shoot at asteroids, drones and occasionally screeching that no one would defeat the _M_ _ighty_ _Shockwave_.”

  


Arcee shook her head, recalling _Shockwave_ 's insanity bouts: isolation was certainly taking its toll.

  


It's not like they really had anything to fear though: as far as she knew, Shockwave rarely got a shot right, and the only real casualty they had in the last million years had been the capture and probable deactivation of their former colleague, Strongarm.

  


* * *

 

 

 _Strongarm_ dutifully cleaned the instruments as Ratchet, finally finished stabilising Ironhide, cleared him to medical rest, sending First Aid out.

  


Staring at his _apprentice_ , Ratchet sighed, remembering the diagnosis on his spark being medically _damaged_ , wondering how _deep_ Shockwave’s _craft_ went, to the point of thinking about making _science_ at such an inappropriate time.

  


Recalling however how Perceptor often followed through the same kind of thought processes, he concluded it _had_ to be the influence of being too closely around a Scientist: most certainly with time and patience he would take this bad habit out of Strongarm.

  


Calling him out, he observed his charge dip his head in assent, a gleam in his visor, stepping closer.

  


“I am aware I displeased you earlier, Chief Medical Officer, with my scientific _enthusiasm_ and I certainly _deserve_ my corrective _lessons._ ”

  


Ratchet opened his mouth to speak, closing it and blinking, as Strongarm knelt down on his left knee, left hand resting on the right kneecap, staring up, EM-field locked tight, immutable faceplates and darkened visor visibly expectant.

  


“I am yours to do as you will, _master_ _._ ”

  


Ratchet blinked. Thrice. That fragging sentence felt so damn _wrong_.

  


After what looked like the most awkward second of the world, Ratchet growled he was no one's _master_ , then pointed to a pair of stools by the slab, ordering him to sit as he took hold of the other and started to review _The Ethical Treatment of Patients_ , a classical datafile, the medic shaking _unformed_ thoughts away.

  


* * *

 

 

Shaking unformed thoughts away, Firestar drove around the Sea of Rust, in search of...

  


“Nautica!! I said I'm sorry!!!”

  


On submarine mode under the floating rust, Nautica sighed. Could not Firestar see she was _pissed_? Could not Firestar know she knew her _amica_ was not truly sorry?

  


How she dreaded having come from Caminus: go see the Universe, they said; go travel with your _amica_ to meet her homeworld and deepen your friendship bond, they said!

  


To come to this dead energonless planet was a full-fledged trap. Damned _Way of Flame_ and their social outcast policy.

  


If only she had a way _out._

 

* * *

 

“Out! If you ever return blasted again I'll leave you on a stasis-pod meant to colonize a backwards world!”

  


Ironhide, chestplate criss-crossed with welds, walked out of the bay with the _warm_ words of encouragement from the autobot CMO echoing in his audials as the doors locked behind.

  


“Any _more_ backwards than this mudball here??” he bellowed against the door.

  


Turning on his heels, he inspected his own chestplates, wondering how _close_ Blaster had shot him this time, snorting: the carrier-host was getting better at finding his spark now, than during the time they actually used to _sparkmerge_.

  


Apparently _hate_ is a _motivator_ more powerful than _love._

  


Very much intent in _not_ finding a certain tapedeck, wondering if he could get to Sunstreak to ask for a repaint, Ironhide moved away, his steps getting followed by the movement of a security camera down the hall.

  


* * *

 

  


Hall finally empty, Red Alert shook his head, glare fixed at the security camera as Ironhide retreated away from the medbay.

  


He was tired of not having his work acknowledged. No one respected him enough, always thinking that his legitimate _worries_ were only reflex of his paranoiac mind.

  


If they knew how difficult it was to plan security around a bunch of triggerhappy mechs dead set on making his life particularly _hard_ , and he wasn't even talking about the _decepticons_ now, they might value his efforts and stop teasing him about _glitching_ all the time.

  


Sagging glumly with his forehead on his right forearm on the desk, he almost jumped, finials frizzling with sudden charge, the instant he felt himself grabbed from behind.

  


“Worried again?”

  


Turning a pair of paranoid optics towards the voice and the embrace, he smiled the instant the faceplates of Inferno filled his sight.

  


Inferno snorted: _worried_ – the understatement of the millennia. When was Red Alert _not_ worried?

  


Or glitched, or about to glitch, for that matter.

  


“The protectobots brought that Strongarm in, and against Prowl's best predictions, Ratchet decided taking her, _him_ , whatever, as apprentice. There is a 94% probability Strongarm will be a liability! Of course I'm worried!!”

  


“Red. I’m certain Prowl is keeping a tight leash on the situation.”

  


* * *

 

 

“We have a _situation_ , Jazz.”

  


Jazz looked up from his cube of _engex_ – how the frag he obtained it, Prowl swore he didn’t even _want_ to know – and smirked.

  


“Prowler. Ol’Hatchet can certainly handle _him_. Chill'out.”

  


Relax: as if Prowl could stop his battle computer from calculating the impending doom.

  


“What I can’t put my finger into is _why_ Optimus allowed Ratchet to keep him for a _year_ before I can review _his_ situation, even with the strong evidence against. If I didn’t know the Prime so well, I’d think he actually expects the whole thing to implode so he can punish Ratchet in the end.”

  


Jazz nodded, sipping his cube.

  


“Nev’underestimate a mech’s powa to inspire hate, Prowler. I sure don’wanna put my fingers into _their_ mess.”

 

* * *

 

“What the frag is this mess?”

  


Shockwave looked up from the pile of scrap.

  


“I am recovering perfectly serviceable parts.”

  


Lifting up some of the now dismantled pieces, Ratchet cringed as soon as _recognition_ kicked in.

  


“Strongarm. This is _Wheelie_.”

  


“Correction: this _was_ Wheelie. It was written on that little note attached to his left pede at the morgue.”

  


“There was a reason for him to be there. Wheelie was _deactivated_. In a surprise attack. I was keeping his shell intact for a proper _ceremony_.”

  


Shockwave stared unfazed between the now dismantled corpse, Ratchet’s fuming face and the pile of parts.

  


“Here I thought you might be keeping him intact for dissection or study. It is a mostly intact corpse except for the single, clean, sniper shot through his sparkchamber. After inspecting the shot minutely and being familiar with the decepticon plethora of weaponry and the damage they incur, I can adequately diagnose the shot is too delicate and precise to be decepticon in origin; as such, I am _fascinated_ to see a fellow autobot went through great lengths just to make sure this particular _subject_ would never see the light of another solar cycle. It is only logical that we honour his demise and the sniper’s skill by recycling as many parts as possible from his deceased self.”

  


Ratchet gaped: Wheelie was _offed_ by an autobot sniper (!!!), not by a decepticon surprise attack. Prowl and Red Alert will have a _newspark –_ together! – the moment they are presented with the task of discovering _who_ deactivated Wheelie.

  


Ratchet, slightly overwhelmed with info, blinked, processors faltering, stuttering.

  


“I… appreciate the _necropsy_ service you have performed, Strongarm. I will inform the Prime about this turn of events.”

  


Shockwave nodded, unaffected by praise, returning to the pile of Wheelie parts, back into _recycling_. Ratchet cleared his voicebox.

  


“Strongarm. Stop defiling the corpse.”

  


Shockwave stalled, turning his unchanging faceplates to him.

  


“It is a fine specimen with very _intact_ parts: I am not defiling, I am _recycling_. I fail to see the logic why I should stop, Chief Medical Officer.”

  


He turned his hands back into the corpse, managing to duck Ratchet’s flying wrench, as a grumbling CMO walked to where his favourite instrument currently fell.

  


“I _don’t_ care. Stop _now_!” he swung the wrench in the air above his head, threateningly “Can you really not understand _why_ you shouldn’t keep defiling the corpse?”

  


Shockwave dipped his head down, keeping his sight on the hovering _wrench_.

  


“I see it now, Chief Medical Officer. Logically, the corpse should remain intact for educational and informational purposes until the identity of the sniper is discovered. I would like to obtain full permission to review my anatomical studies on his shell while investigations are underway, and once they are concluded, that I have first dibs on the retrieval of valuable parts. T-cogs are a rare _treat_ and greatly needed in case of damage, lest a cybertronian becomes nearly useless without the ability to transform.”

  


Ratchet groaned: admirable skill coupled with lack of ethical understanding.

  


“Strongarm: know that I _will_ drill _Ethics_ personally through your thick hull even if it’s the last thing I get to do in my existence! You will quit _dissecting_ now!!”

  


Shockwave, visor glowing slightly darker, monotoning one _yes, master_ with a tightly contained flare of his EM-field at the idea of having his hull _drilled_ , finally left the half-defiled corpse alone, bowing his head minutely and leaving the medbay, paddles rotating slowly on his back.

  


Ratchet, in between angry and annoyed, screamed one _I’m not your master!_ at the retreating frame, finally facepalming and shaking his head.

  


* * *

 

 

Head aching, Optimus Prime stared at the datapad on his desk, unwilling to even touch it.

  


What he wouldn’t give to come back to his peaceful life back when he was an archivist in Iacon. At least back then he would be away from this bag of cats.

  


Curse Strongarm. Curse Shockwave. Curse Ratchet!

  


If Optimus didn’t know the medic was indeed understaffed, he could even imagine he requested to take on Strongarm just to annoy him because he could.

  


Not that Optimus would _show_ he was feeling annoyed: he wasn’t going to give this kind of satisfaction to his _old friend_.

  


Let him have Shockwave’s _scrap_ : either _Strongarm_ proves to be a good medic, or he shows his true colours and proves Prowl’s prediction true. The only one to take on the fallout will be his _esteemed_ CMO. Either way Optimus wins.

  


Snorting with glee under his battlemask, Optimus glared at his office’s retro _calendar_ , counting the days and months...


	4. Rolled Out

* * *

Days turned into months, cycling into a year, as Ratchet catalogued and took notes on Strongarm’s progress: despite slips here and there, the occasional cruelty and inevitable bouts of inconvenient _scientific curiosity_ , it was undeniable that the mech had skill, and wartimes couldn’t afford to be too picky.

 

As the last properly _forged_ Medic of the Medical Board of Cybertron, capable of ministering the Order Exams, Ratchet had been looking very much forward to the incoming test.

 

From what he already knew of Strongarm, this purely technical evaluation of skill would result near flawless. Had there been the other Medical Board Members here, they might object to the _moral_ aspect not being accounted for the graduation, but it isn’t like they will jump out of their entombed spark casings to protest.

 

Besides, holding up a _Chevroning Ceremony_ would make a couple of mechs cringe: nothing like a nemesis’s misery to warm up own’s own _spark._

 

* * *

 

 

Spark craving answers, Soundwave, aboard the newly sunken _Nemesis_ (turned Undersea Decepticon Base as soon as the _Heart of Cybertron_ was blown away from Megatron’s core), couldn’t help latching a pair of datacables from his back into the ship’s systems.

 

He tried to no avail to locate when the upper cloister’s _improved_ elevator was installed and put to work: he managed so far to uncover its author, and wasn’t surprised to find it was a modification implemented by _Shockwave_.

 

Shaking his head, he sadly found it would be impossible to find when the modifications took place: during the millions of years the ship remained half-buried under the Amazonian forest, most of its memory banks were partially damaged and much corrupted information ended up irremediably lost.

 

So much hindsight of Shockwave’s part: if Soundwave didn’t know his co-bonded was so _brilliant_ he might even think he had managed to actually _live_ through the problem of needing to leave the ship and having no option but upgrading the lift to get out.

 

Shaking the ridiculous notion away, Soundwave briefly acknowledged the distinct _tug and pull_ at his own spark, and asked himself how to best convey Lord Megatron his news.

 

Not that there was any need for mystery: ever since Ravage, their first _creation_ , Megatron acknowledged and even welcomed all the cassettes for what they were: fully functional sparks, equal in everything to those generated by Primus in _hot spots_.

 

The only difference is they were _his_ , housed in juvenile cassette frames for their own protection during their first millions of years, protection Soundwave fiercely and ruthlessly provided.

 

All his other cassettes were conceived outside wartimes: all had been planned in a way, and despite having grown already under the Decepticon revolution, he managed to have a few relatively peaceful times with all of them and his two bondmates.

 

He shook his head remembering Shockwave’s unending charts and clinical trials, studying the underlining reasons why he had never been able to get sparked a single time, finding no reasonable explanation. Shockwave, brilliant, with all technology, databanks, scans and all the Sciences and Knowledge on his side, and an unsullied sparkchamber with a healthy port, never managed what Primus saw fit to bestow upon Soundwave so instinctively and effortlessly.

 

Not that there was any kind of special lesson or irony in this: sometimes life just wasn’t fair.

 

Musing on chance happenings, coincidences, lucky streaks and the ever present Law of Murphy, the tapedeck idly deposed his right hand atop his transparent chestplate, lightly caressing it.

 

He had no need of scanning to _know_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He _knew_.

 

He _knew_ they all had to be doing it on purpose just to make him _glitch._

 

Red Alert, peeking from behind the medbay’s door, couldn’t help intruding at _Strongarm_ ’s personal moment of gleefully recycling Wheelie parts. He looked so fragging _suspicious_ _separating all those tiny pieces in boxes._

 

How can Ratchet stand it?

 

If he had been _around_ by the time Wheelie had been shot, he would certainly have become the suspect number one.

 

It was in his nature: Red Alert couldn’t help himself and _had_ to come by to investigate.

 

Having had the investigation of Wheelie _fail_ , he recalled the awful night he and Prowl decided giving up on the search and against all logic and _security_ , _sloshed_ themselves in confiscated home-brewed high-grade, having woken up with an awful processor-ache and no recognition of any memories about any single thing they might have done.

 

The fact the security camera on Prowl’s office, where they drowned their coolant away, _failed_ , was of no help whatsoever.

 

Considering the whole autobot base befell a night without their surveillance and _survived_ , nothing bad having happened _at all_ , they wrought a spark-felt pact and sworn to never confess anyone they had been _that_ negligent, much less to admit they had no recollection of the events of said night.

 

Fortunately they had their own locked medical _logs_ of the night, ready for review.

 

Unfortunately, they would need medical clearance to be able to access them and know exactly what they did.

 

Which brought them a dilemma: upon their request, once they knew about how much they were currently loathing medics, First Aid would be spark-hurt and _wounded_ bearing his worst puppy glare, and Ratchet would swear bloody revenge and hit them repeatedly with his wrench, cursing all along as he promised they would regret their next medical reviews for the next millions of years. Hoist, trustful and understanding, unfortunately, was a _mechanic_ at best and had no upper-processor upgrading or the skill to review logs.

 

Unless they decided resorting to _Strongarm_ : he was rumoured to be so _sparkless_ that there was a fat chance he would review their logs dispassionately to the point of not even caring if they ill-spoke of the medical class, however, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t attempt any revenge or punishment just _on principle_ or because he could.

 

Basically, Prowl and Red Alert were utterly _fragged_ either way. If at least they had really produced a _newspark_ – as they knew they _almost_ figuratively did when they heard news of the mystery _sniper_ in autobot ranks – they would know _what_ they did, but not even _that_ took place to assure them of _yes_ : to mechs used to control every millimetre of their lives, _not_ knowing something was the worst punishment.

 

Primus certainly was having a _laugh_.

 

* * *

 

 

Laughing, Jazz couldn’t help cackling on his own: having hacked into the system and making sure the security camera of Prowl’s office appeared _malfunctioned_ , he and Inferno now had the exclusive footage of Prowl and Red Alert’s _overcharged_ night in.

 

The poor souls would glitch so hard if they found out.

 

It’s not that they had done anything that reproachable afterall: they were so _uptight_ that all they managed to do while smashed was giggle stupidly, exchange bad jokes neither Jazz or Inferno could understand, guzzle and spill energon, cry their perceived _misery_ of no one valuing their _work_ , exchange a few spark-felt overcharged hugs and finally collapse one atop the other, snoring loudly.

 

Knowing they were probably thinking the worst possible things about their _missing_ night, Jazz couldn’t help shaking his head: the pained glares they exchanged when they thought no one was looking and the immense amount of _guilt_ they exuded every time they are reminded of the _mystery sniper_ is almost not funny.

 

Talking on said sniper, Jazz had tried his best to shuffle through his underground net, to no avail.

 

Moonracer and Catapult, two known female sharpshooters, were on Cybertron; Cliffjumper’s gun rifle power is too intense to be capable of causing merely a _minute_ shot through a sparkchamber; So far only two fit the stereotype: Crosshairs is rumoured to be extremely precise, but was deployed on mission with Sureshot for months and both simply were _not_ in close range to have been responsible for the shot.

 

Wheelie had been literally _recharging_ and was found deactivated within his own quarters. After ruling out suicide, and the security cameras having shown no one entered or left his room, Jazz came to Suspects number one: _Mirage_ , with his invisibility cloak, and Hound, with his holograms.

 

Had Mirage any sharpshooter abilities, he might have been arrested on spot: hadn’t Hound this day and time not been under full display of the humans in a National Park, with many witnesses, attempting futilely to become one with Nature and randomly chasing off wildlife, he might either.

 

Once he ruled out the disguisers, and the known snipers, he had to admit temporary defeat: _every other mecha_ might have preferred Wheelie deactivated just for being excessively annoying.

 

No suspicious moving of adequate weaponry took place. No suspicious mecha around. No one gloating or regretting the deed.

 

This sniper had to be a fragging _genius_ to remain hidden for so long.

 

If only he had a _clue._

 

* * *

 

 

“I have no clue, Prime”

 

Optimus shook his head as Ironhide shrugged, rotating his energon cube in his hands, finally chugging it.

 

“It’s not like _Wheelie_ is getting exactly missed, so why are you so hell-bent in finding his murderer, anyway?”

 

“It’s complicated, Ironhide. I am the Prime, leader and supposed to care about all my fellow autobots. He was killed in cold energon and it’s our duty to find the culprit and bring him to punishment. According to Ratchet, based on his _assistant_ Strongarm’s necropsy on Wheelie’s corpse, it had been an autobot _sniper_.”

 

Realisation hitting him, Ironhide nodded knowingly, smirking behind his cube.

 

“So this is what it’s about. Fine, if I find anything on the _sniper_ , I’ll tell you, Prime.”

 

Raising an optic ridge, Optimus lowered himself to the level of Ironhide’s optics.

 

“Are you implying what I think you _did_?”

 

He shook his head, finally finishing his cube.

 

“I can’t imply what’s fragging obvious. I’m not the only one with a complicated _ex_. While mine actively hates and shoots me, and I get all the scars and welds to prove, yours is too passive-aggressive and _insidious_ to openly attack.”

 

Standing up, he approached Optimus Prime’s audials, whispering.

 

“I’d avoid undergoing _medical_ evaluation if I were you.”

 

Patting Optimus in his shoulder, Ironhide, for once glad he had never messed up with _Ratchet_ , pondered there were fates worse than being Blaster’s cassettes’ _sire_.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Sire_.

 

Megatron stared at the undersea window, focusing on a passing school of fish, rolling the word in his voicebox.

 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore, but it still did. In a couple of centuries, according to Soundwave’s calculations, there would be a new cassette.

 

The first one since Ravage that Shockwave might not be around to witness.

 

Shaking his head, the tyrant recalled how his unemotional scientist tried and tried to the point of exhaustion to get himself sparked; it didn’t matter for him if Soundwave or himself sired it – he wanted to produce a newspark of his own, because he thought it was _illogical_ to waste his superior intellect by not passing it on to a future generation.

 

Of course both Megatron and Soundwave complied with the trials: not only Shockwave was very open to any forms of experimentation in the berth, it was also only fair to let him try. As a trusted decepticon, he deserved the chance.

 

Finally one day, Shockwave came to the Decepticon Throne Room on Cybertron, holding a staggering amount of datapads: they contained _all_ his files on the millions of years and hundreds of millions of trials divided by period and bondmate, all charted, classified and analysed for positioning, cybertronian yearly cycle, amount of time for beginning of sparkmerge, period of time they remained merged afterwards, and even intensity of final overload.

 

As such, in the middle of a _reunion_ , showing an amazing lack of _tact_ and _timing_ , Shockwave walked to his Lord, bowed his head with a flourish and just _let_ all the datapads fall haphazardly before Lord Megatron’s feet, effectively _silencing_ the until then bubbling reunion.

 

Megatron now snickers recalling the faces his decepticons did when Shockwave droned explaining the reason for the datapads, especially as most of them were dumbfounded to come to the realisation that _Shockwave_ of all mechs had an interfacing life many times more active than even the most boisterous decepticons.

 

However, at the day he had gotten mad at the unnecessary display of their _intimacy_ to the whole fleet: he even wanted to punish Shockwave right then for the ridiculous he made them pass, but Soundwave just dipped his head down at the datapads, sending his lord a wordless ping for him to _please_ not lash out – Shockwave would never _show_ , but he was certainly hurting, even if he didn’t recognise the feeling.

 

So, Megatron, acquiescing to Soundwave’s request, merely nodded back to Shockwave, saying he understood his _logic_ in no longer trying, granting him leave for as long as he needed, and daring anyone in the room with the flicker of his own optics to even think of _mocking_ the situation.

 

Since then, Shockwave threw himself completely at his work, having _blocked_ for good the transmission of even his residual feelings through the sparkbond to them, and from them, muting their link, explaining their constant emotional presence was _distracting_.

 

He never actively searched them for interfacing or sparkmerging anymore, being always fully consenting, compliant and _effective_ however, whenever his _presence_ was requested.

 

So, as the centuries came by and new cassettes came into life, Megatron couldn’t help feeling slightly sorry for his guardian’s _inability_ : Shockwave showed no visible disappointment on being unable, but Megatron knew the resigned one-opticed side-glances whenever he saw them focusing a bit too long on each of the newly activated cassettes.

 

Not that the tyrant put any pressure into sparking: it came so naturally to Soundwave, that Megatron just knew it would be fruitless to even suggest they had enough creations so far: Soundwave refused to employ any sort of sparking control, and for a leader it was never wise to diminish your own authority by giving an order you _know_ will _not_ be followed through.

 

Neither of them liked having their creations thrown in the effort of war, but it was either this or enslavement by the autobots and the Functionists. Besides, Soundwave was a fierce protector, and he knew the cassettes were reasonably safe as long as they shared a direct bond to their carrier and remained on their juvenile frames.

 

Snorting, Megatron prided himself in defying _Primus_ even in this aspect: officially Cybertronians only came by the will of Primus from _hot spots_ , fragments of Primus’ own spark and core, and mech-on-mech reproduction was supposed to be nothing but legend, taboo even, and even when it occasionally took place, the newsparks were considered to be inferior cybertronians, meant to be _enslaved_ by the controversial figure of the _carrier-hosts_ , erroneously considered to be _slavemasters_.

 

Proving Primus’ priestdom _wrong_ , Megatron sired every single cassette from Soundwave except for Ratbat, a repurposed, _adopted_ spark previously belonging to the now deceased _owner_ of Soundwave before the War, ex-senator Ratbat.

 

Currently being an agreeable youngling with an avidness for energon that made him a near specialist, and no memory of who he had been before, Ratbat had _nothing_ to do with the enslaver and corrupt senator anymore, and as such Megatron welcomed him as a useful decepticon, in respect to Soundwave’s wish of keeping him around.

 

 _Soundwave: soft spark for newsparks_ , as he had monotoned many times. How could Megatron not agree?

 

Truly grateful for Soundwave’s grounding presence, being literally the _face_ of the revolution, and the glue that kept their polybond together, Megatron knew he would never have been able to keep tabs on everything without his faithful Chief Communications Officer, Third in Command and First Mate.

 

Even if he preferred to delegate the basekeeping tasks to Shockwave, who more than ever, obsessively kept charts and graphs on every single energon cube consumed and efficiency achieved by its employ on each different task and sector, making sure no waste would take place, increasing the decepticon’s survivability in the War.

 

Missing his Second Mate and his emotionally compromised spark, Megatron asked himself what kind of projects and ideas he had been working on during his isolation on Cybertron, almost _smiling_ , unconsciously bracing himself for the _pile_ of datapads that would be unceremoniously thrown on his lap.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A pile of datapads was unceremoniously thrown on his lap, as Ratchet yelped, bracing himself not to fall off his chair.

 

“What the _well_ is it???”

 

Shockwave, having just come from his leisurely time of Recycling Wheelie and scaring the easte fluids out of Red Alert who was stalking him in the medbay’s door, stared unfazed at the CMO’s optics, until then dozing on his own office, a half-empty high-grade cube abandoned in the desk.

 

“It is a pile of datapads.” Shockwave droned, fleeting a glance at the high-grade and concluding he could distill five cubes of out it.

 

Meanwhile, groaning something about being victim of a _binary_ thinking mech, Ratchet finished the cube and put the pile at the desk, taking the first in hands, then the second and third, skimming through them and shaking his head.

 

They had gone through this before, and the answer was still _no._

 

He handed the pile back, silently, hoping to have conveyed the message across.

 

 _Strongarm_ caught it, staring blankly at the CMO, expectantly handing him the first datapad back.

 

Ratchet rolled his optics: _apparently, not_. In-venting, this time he accepted the proffered datapad, as Strongarm begun monotoning.

 

“I strongly advise that we measure samples of fluoroantimonic acid of varying concentrations, provoke contact during different amounts of time, taking _very through_ notes and charting the results on a comprehensive formula so we can predict its future reactions to further contact.”

 

Ratchet shook his head, the image of dissolving circuitry and armour coming to mind, placing the datapad on the desk. Shockwave handed him the second datapad.

 

“I have not been so thorough with this particular analysis so far, but what about the measurement of negative expansion of the material when exposed to stellar levels of hypergravity? It might prove _interesting_.”

 

Sighing heavily and imagining shrinking optics and crunching armour, Ratchet shook his head again, stacking the datapad up. Shockwave handed then the number three.

 

“It could then be subjected to reactive species of oxygen into a poisonous atmosphere. In a totally controlled environment, of course.”

 

Ratchet pinched his nosebridge, not even wanting to think about the consequences, absently throwing the datapad atop the others. Shockwave, tirelessly, insisted with a fourth.

 

“On second thought, Chief Medical Officer, maybe methodically vivisecting to see real-time exactly how his innards work. For Science. I promise to make my _best_ to _not_ allow undesired premature offlining.”

 

Squinting as he could almost _see_ the screams of horror and despair during the _vivisection_ , Ratchet gripped the proffered datapad and fixed his glare on his _assistant_ , who had just unsubspaced yet one another datapad, extending it to his CMO.

 

“Perhaps then...”

 

“For the last time, Strongarm, no, you can't just make _experiments_ with The Prime!!!”

 

He threw the fourth datapad into Strongarm’s head, cracking its glass, as the reactionless heliformer didn’t even flinch, merely subspacing the fifth datapad back, minutely bowing his head.

 

“I see my progressive ideas were not to your taste, yet again, Chief Medical Officer. If you ever change your _spark_ and would give me the _opportunity_ , I can be found performing _drone_ work. I would do _anything_ for the chance to _experiment_.”

 

Ratchet stared, unblinking, as Shockwave turned on his heels with an almost flourish, swaying hips right and left, leaving the room, slowly tilting his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Tilting his head slowly, Shockwave’s empty shell turned _drone_ on Cybertron stared numbly at the screen.

 

For millions of years he used cautiously the meagre reserves of energon that had not been stolen by the _fe_ _e_ _male_ autobots – the _glitches_! _–_ into scientific projects, production of drones, shooting (sparsely!) asteroids, and attempting to communicate with _Lord Megatron_.

 

After so many years trying and getting no response, he was slightly dumbstruck the moment he tried and an answer came through.

 

“ _Shockwave, Guardian of Cybertron!”_

 

The screen flickered, depicting the visibly amused faceplates of no one less than _Lord Megatron_.

 

* * *

 

 

Lord Megatron, having been surprised in his musings by the calling _screen_ , stared with nearly uncontained _glee_ at his long lost scientist and mate, unaware that he was looking at an empty _shell._

 

“ _Megatron, Leader of the Decepticons.”_

 

Shockwave’s sparkless drone tilted his head right, finials standing to attention, as Megatron grinned openly. Of course he wasn’t expecting his mate to jump through the screen and grab him for some rough and dirty _facing_ , but a mech could dream.

 

Soundwave, hacking through the transmission from his own room, couldn’t help an amused flicker of his own EM-field: Shockwave made contact, and his _family_ was finally _complete._

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Aren’t we a complete family? Why did you have to _leave_? I have been searching for you for _months_.”

 

Hiding underground at the Kaonian ruins, Nautica groaned, as Firestar, having just located one of her many hiding spots, hovered around her.

 

“You know very well _why_ we are _amica_ endura: It was either that or be officially cast as _lonely_. You told me yourself it was only an arrangement! You are the one who never valued our friendship as you should, Firestar!”

 

“Ok, I admit I didn’t like it at first, but I’m _used_ to you now, frag it!!! Of course you are _family_ , as much as an annoying sibling that hogs on the covers and chugs down energon with its mouth open and never properly flushes down the waste tank produce!”

 

The enraged Nautica bit the bait.

 

“I don’t hog on the covers! And I only forgot the flushing that one time. Besides, _you_ are the one who chugs down the energon!”

 

Nautica folded arms, raising her chin to the other direction, as Firestar smirked.

 

“See how we know each other well? We are family indeed, practically sparkbonded to boot! For us to be perfect you only need to forget that guy, what’s his name, Skips?”

 

“It’s Skids, and I’m not forgetting him, I even _danced_ with him and I do not dance!”

 

“I don’t see him searching for you endlessly on the ruins of Cybertron and insisting for you to talk to him.” Firestar checked on her fingertips.

 

“Could it be because he wouldn’t _need_ to?” Nautica spat, then made her leaving, turning on her heels.

 

 _Ouch_.

 

Firestar growled, screeching at the retreating Nautica, stomping her feet.

 

“You know something. You are right. I should be just staying here where I belong with Chromia and Arcee raiding old Shockwave off his fuel, while you run after that _Squids_ guy and get ready to find out he only wanted you for _fun_ and is not ready to have you in his life outside of _dancing_ , and in truth is _spark_ bonded to a mean _carrier-host_ and has a home with an _army_ of _scraplets_!!!”

 

* * *

 

 

An army of _scraplets_ surrounded him as he blinked, a _mean_ carrier-host filling his sight.

 

“Oh, frag.”

 

Soundwave tilted his head at the intruder, the cassettes following suite and mimicking him.

 

“Skywarp: VOPed into the wrong room?”

 

Quickly Skywarp nodded: anything to leave the premises and return to his trine. He truly had been searching for hidden high-grade, but he would settle for freedom with his limbs whole.

 

Soundwave merely nodded back, no longer looming above him and returning to his surveillance screen: he was in a too good mood to truly care about a little interloper, who quickly saluted and VOPed away, as he finally sighed, silently pinging his cassettes for them to dock, for he had something important to share.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I would like to share something important.”

 

“If you are going to _share_ that we need to send the Prime into a giant centrifuge to catalogue the effects of different spinning rates at his balance circuits, the answer is no.”

 

Shockwave stopped very still for a second.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I had no idea you had _it_ in you. I am _enthusiastic_ to hear such an idea spontaneously rolling out of your lip-plates. Not only it is _logical_ but also wholly feasible. I will certainly elaborate on it for later, citing comprehensive literature on the subject, and fully crediting you.”

 

Stuttering for an instant, Ratchet gritted his dental plates together, as _Strongarm_ unsubspaced a datapad and handed it to him.

 

Before _Strongarm_ could speak though, Ratchet caught and swung the datapad over his head, neatly aiming for Strongarm’s chestplate, missing it as the heliformer caught it mid-air, flipping it back towards the medic.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. Please do not refuse it. This datapad documents my full learning curve and progress under your tutorage. I have compiled all the info so you will not need to. I have come here to _share_ that I consider myself ready to take the Order’s Exams. Right now.”

 

Ratchet blinked, taking the datapad back. _Right now_? Did he listen to it _right_? When did the tutor-pupil order was reversed anyway?

 

“So you’re feeling bold, then.” He scowled “Open that slagging _port_ and let me _dock_ to send your exams right into your systems then, _Strongarm_.”

 

Darkening his visor for an instant as he nodded, immediately exposing his 2.0 medical port, Shockwave nearly _revved_ his engines in _excitement_ as the CMO resolutely yet calmly clicked his red and white medical cable in, pinging for request to send a file.

 

Reviewing and already mentally answering the questions, Shockwave received the connection with near _eagerness_ : It was past the time for him to answer this exam and quit being Ratchet’s pupil.

 

* * *

 

 

“I was Ratchet’s pupil! I was to take the Order Exams!!”

 

The racer openly laughed overchargedly, as Knock-Out sagged: so much for telling the truth.

 

“You are just _rude_. I’m closing the shop for the day. Go get your _pierced_ mod anywhere else!”

 

Blinking stupidly, the flashy orange painted racer with fancy wavy kibble on his head and flame patterns all over his shell and an ill-concealed autobot symbol _hiccuped_ , swaying back and forth as he tried standing up.

 

“But you’re the only modder left on Cybetron! And I _need_ my new _pierced_ array. The mechs _dig_ piercings.”

 

Knock-Out shrugged.

 

“Clearly not my problem. I’m just a lowly non-certified _cosmetic modder_. I’m not worth of your time, little _wonder_. Go back to your _autobots_ , uncle Prime might be missing you.” He checked on his fingertips.

 

The flashy mech then draped himself all over Knock-Out, who feigned offended.

 

“Nah. Please let me stay longer. Uncle Optimus is _boring_. I am very sorry for not treating you right, _doctor_.”

 

He wriggled his optic ridges: Knock-Out smirked.

 

“I wonder, _Roddy the Hot_. How _sorry_ are you willing to be?”

 

“ _Very_.” He purred.

 

* * *

 

 

Purring, very sorry for having taken so long to come to _carrier_ to dock, Ravage was the last in, before Soundwave conveyed the news.

 

The cassetticons knew very well they were under constant danger of other mechs around the decepticons, and that they had to stick together.

 

Being the oldest, he knew the task of keeping track of the youngest would be his eventually: long due his final upgrade into an adult frame, he purposefully chose to remain a dependent, beastformer cassette as long as the War was on, both for personal protection but also to keep the familial cohort unified and strong.

 

Not to mention the advantage of abusing his felinoid form to let himself act lazy, recharge anywhere he liked, hiss and growl at whoever he wanted without obvious punishment, and actively share _Lord Megatron_ ’s lap – the perks of being the _first_ – without anyone finding it even remotely awkward. He didn’t even mind being unable to use speech: no one outside the familial bond had anything useful to talk about anyway.

 

_Ravage: full of himself. Knows from whom the trait comes. Soundwave not surprised._

 

Rolling his optics within the deck, boomed by Soundwave’s mental voice, he shrugged, purring loudly in a clear attempt to lure his carrier into a false sense of security.

  


* * *

 

 

Lured into a false sense of security, Ratchet had just finished correcting the Order’s Exams handed by _Strongarm_ , almost the same instant he finished sending the questions in.

 

Not that he expected much different, mused Ratchet: 98% of correct answers was a fine number. _Chevroning Ceremony, there would they go._

 

Shockwave, on his side, made sure to get _wrong_ two of the 100 questions: it never bode well to exhibit perfection: flawlessness was inherently suspicious, and he _needed_ to get this _chevron_.

 

While his _master_ informed his _superior officers_ of Strongarm’s success in the Order Exams, calling for an official _ceremony_ soon, Shockwave mused on his own corner as he absently inspected his black double-forged medical hands.

 

He was supposed to have waited for the Exams to be offered, but Shockwave knew his timing in asking was almost flawless: the medic’s willingness to just hand him the _chevron_ already had been palpable for months now, but being a methodical afthole as he was, Shockwave decided building up the moment until it reached the deadline set by Optimus one year ago.

 

Only then, once everything was over, as a fully chevroned _medic_ , two years after leaving his pod, one year after infiltrating the autobots, he would be able to get into the next part of his plan:

 

Getting _close_ to Optimus Prime.


	5. A Prime Problem

 

Optimus Prime flopped on his desk, completely exhausted.

 

He had just _presided_ the first _Chevroning Ceremony_ that ever took place since the advent of the Great War, and as the _Prime_ , Elita-1 sitting regally by his right side, he had the _honour_ of summoning _Strongarm_ to the dais, reciting the usual speech about a medic’s role under Primus, then calling upon Ratchet.

 

He couldn’t help noticing how Strongarm insisted on kneeling down knight-style, head low, amazingly submissive, as Ratchet walked by, apparently stalled for an instant and _sighed_ , finally walking close to his pupil, lifting his face up with the left hand’s index, thumb lightly grazing the side of his battlemask.

 

The gaze exchanged lasted a second longer than it should, as Ironhide and Jazz snorted, and Prowl and Red Alert squirmed on the background and gossip slowly filled the small crowd of autobots gathered at the Rec Room: finally, in one fluid move, the CMO unsubspaced the dark chevron, resting it against Strongarm’s forehead, keeping him looking up so the chevron wouldn’t fall.

 

Once he was sure on the complete immobility of his pupil’s body, firmly holding his chin up Ratchet quickly morphed his right hand into a welder, finally fusing the chevron in the middle of the new medic’s forehead, Strongarm’s visor suddenly going off as the smell of heated cybertronium filled the place.

 

Ratchet widened his optics minutely as Strongarm visibly grounded himself against the residual pain of the welder with a visibly aborted attempt to nuzzle the left side of the battlemask against his hand: after an uncomfortable second, having transformed his hand back to normal, he held it palm up to help his former assistant, now _fellow_ medic, to stand.

 

Optimus, oscillating between anger and something that could be called regret at the sight, immediately offered Strongarm right there, publicly, his own berthroom, now that he was a _medic_ , instead of forcibly bunking with Ratchet.

 

Assenting without a single hint of neither disappointment nor gratefulness, amazingly unfazed by the event otherwise, merely asking for permission to leave the premises, Strongarm walked out of the room, effectively ending the ceremony prematurely, Optimus snickering wide under his mask as Ratchet’s slightly _hurt_ sight still followed the retreating frame.

 

Nothing like your former intended’s misery to make your day feel right.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you feel all right?”

 

Ratchet raised his optics from a huge pile of datapads, staring right into the blue visor, asking himself since when _Strongarm_ started caring, finally realising to whom it belonged, throwing one of the datapads away, as the battlemasked mech followed it clanking three times before stopping.

 

“First Aid. I gather you see I’m in a foul mood.”

 

The protectobot sighed: when was the CMO _not_ in a foul mood?

 

Ratchet grumbled, almost offended at Optimus’ surprising bout of _generosity_. Not even the _protectobots_ had been granted their own quarters at the base. It’s obvious _why_ the Prime gave Strongarm his own room.

 

* * *

 

 

“His own room! What were you thinking, Prime???”

 

Prowl hovered around his _leader_ spitting statistics at how much more a liability _Strongarm_ would be now he was no longer under direct surveillance of Ratchet, as Optimus merely nodded, battlemask on, smirking behind it.

 

“That’s it, you were not thinking. You were trying to get _revenge_.”

 

Optimus Prime slowly shifted his optics towards his SIC, daring him to repeat it only with the flare of his EM-field.

 

“Prowl: I’m the Prime. I’m supposed to provide the best conditions of work for my staff, and I judged _Strongarm_ now should berth on his own place. If he had any objections, he could have voiced them, instead of plainly accepting it.”

 

After what looked the longest second of the world, Prowl _flipped_ Optimus’ desk, the Matrix-shaped paperweight bouncing and rolling out on the ground, then unceremoniously left.

 

Unblinking, Optimus finally shook his head, idly wondering if _Megatron_ had to deal with this kind of crap.

 

* * *

 

 

_I hate dealing with this kind of crap._

 

Megatron, idly staring at his three seekers discussing against the three coneheads, Swindle taking the bets on which trine would _win_ , merely shook his head, other worries occupying his mind.

 

Even though he _knew_ his g _uardian_ Shockwave was relatively cold and unfeeling, their exchange via comm was unbearably _void_.

 

Megatron knew where to look and find the subtle signs: Shockwave’s protocol and predictable submission, always ready to serve, was always laced with scientific innuendo, unfortunately even at the worst hours, and this time there was _none_.

 

Megatron sighed, recalling how his mate lacked in proper tact, trying to play safe by normally not initiating things, compensating his lack of je-ne-sais-quois with almost scientific _enthusiasm_ , literally treating each of their private _session_ as part of a personal _research_.

 

Perhaps it even was a _research_ , under his optic.

 

Most mecha would find it _off-putting_.

 

Megatron found it _interesting_.

 

* * *

 

 _Interesting_.

 

Shockwave entered his new, empty quarters, more like a repurposed _storage closet_ , with nothing more than a standard-sized berth, walls littered with empty shelves, a small desk directly next to the berth, where he was supposed to sit instead of using a proper chair, and no private washracks, deciding that logically he would start using the medbay’s one whenever needed.

 

The room however wasn’t what he found interesting. As a matter of fact, the room is absolutely _not_ interesting.

 

What was _interesting_ was the fact the _Prime_ gave it to him: he wholly expected to keep directly subordinated to the medic at all hours, having already started laying plans to convince him to help taking the Matrix from Optimus, for _medical_ reasons, of course.

 

Obviously the Prime didn’t consult with his SIC for that: the decision had 95% chance of having been done impulsively, on the fly, right there during the ceremony, according to Prowl’s twitching optics and Red Alert’s fizzling finials.

 

Absently scratching the weld, Shockwave turned to a mirror to contemplate the official _chevron_ adorning his forehead, nicely contrasting with the mostly white and blue frame, edges sticking out to the sides and up.

 

He almost felt something akin to satisfaction: take that, Functionists. Scientist _and_ Medic, now isn’t it just great? The Council must be rolling in their deceased sparkchambers now.

 

Shockwave amusedly pondered about getting a degree in _intelligence_ and _espionage_ just because he could. Scientist-spy-medic sounded nice for an anti-functionist résumé.

 

Unsubspacing a pile of a dozen datapads, he neatly stacked them into a shelf, asking himself where he had left the others he was sure he had.

 

* * *

 

He was sure he had it.

 

He had even managed to lose it.

 

“Rumble. Frenzy. Operation: localization.”

 

Grumbling, the twins dragged themselves around the room, searching with unnerving lack of _will_ Soundwave’s lost _Deluxe_ _10_ _th_ _Anniversary_ _BW Megatron toy._

 

“Beast Wars Megatron toy: part of Soundwave’s collection. Cannot get into recharge before finding it. Toy: too important.”

 

Raising one optic ridge, Rumble stalled. Soundwave kept searching.

 

“Why…?”

 

Soundwave sighs loudly.

 

“BW Megatron: _decepticon_ purple: great smile: bodily proportions, aesthetically compelling: voice, extremely appealing to the _spark._ ”

 

Gaping, Rumble and Frenzy shared a glance, briefly wondering _if_ Lord Megatron was aware…

 

“Lord Megatron: _entirely_ aware of Soundwave’s little _obsession_ with his _fictional_ namesake _._ Often _indulges_ Soundwave by _roleplaying_. Soundwave: appreciates _immensely._ ”

 

Soundwave then tilted his head, amused, continuing his search, as the two horrified cassettes wished they could erase the _image_ from their processors.

 

* * *

 

Wishing he could erase the _image_ from his processors, Ratchet turned and tossed on his berth: the retreating frame of _Strongarm_ leaving the Rec Room after his own berthroom, wide hips swaying right and left with each step as his paddles rotated slowly counter clockwise, _filled_ his memories.

 

He was sure he would get mad: he was even _seeing_ his former assistant standing up right by his side, looking down onto the berth at himself.

 

 _Wait_.

 

Jolting his optics up, Ratchet contemplated the stern immutable faceplates of Strongarm.

 

“Weren’t you given your own room? What are you doing here?”

 

Ratchet had then a black right servo unceremoniously shoved before his face, in a supine position.

 

“I came for my myriad of datapads, which you never fully read and just stack around. I am filing them in my new berthroom following a _logical_ system.”

 

He groaned: Strongarm handed him through the last year a truckload of datapads.

 

“Can’t you do it in the morning? For once I’m trying to recharge.”

 

He lied. He couldn’t and wouldn’t just recharge. More like mop and grumble until unconsciousness kicked in, then give up and slosh himself in high-grade. Not necessarily in that order.

 

Shockwave contemplated he room for a while, then removed the four paddles, resting them against the wall, and retracted the rotor into his back.

 

“I will wait for your cycle then, Chief Medical Officer.”

 

He shoved the medic to the left side of the berth, slotting himself on the right side, turning on his left and facing the dumbstruck Ratchet.

 

_What?_

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I have gotten used to having _white_ noise on my audials as I drift into recharge. You are a great natural source of white noise and I would appreciate if you started recharging and rattling your engines soon.”

 

Ratchet blinked, unsure if he felt insulted or flattened at the fact Strongarm apparently liked to hear him _snore_.

 

“I am ready to _go under_ , Chief Medical Officer _._ ”

 

Shockwave then offlined his visor, preparing to recharge, at touching distance yet not in contact, as Ratchet stared at the peaceful form, briefly extending his hand to trace the recently welded dark chevron’s tip, finally giving up and offlining his own optics, attempting to slow his racing mind down, shaking his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Shaking his head and donning a pained glare to the screen, Red Alert reviewed once again the video security file, as Prowl folded his arms observing _Strongarm_ key Ratchet’s room code in and get inside.

 

It’s been more than six earthly hours and he didn’t come out yet.

 

Knowing the autobot’s patterns of recharge, aware of Strongarm and Ratchet’s current schedule, Prowl got to the most probable conclusion.

 

“Strongarm since the beginning proved to be a creature of habit. It’s obvious he got in to recharge, and our CMO Ratchet didn’t send him away.”

 

Nodding, Red Alert replayed yet again the video sequence.

 

“What’s the chance that they might be into a relationship?”

 

“I don’t have sufficient data to calculate it, but I can infer they aren’t. Ratchet’s _miserable_ demeanour at the end of the _chevroning ceremony_ as Strongarm left suggests he might be interested, but nothing took place.”

 

“Yet.”

 

“For once, Red Alert, I disagree: Strongarm seems to act completely void of interest in anything but following his own habitual functions. Recharging at the CMO’s room might just be part of his _schedule_.”

 

Red Alert shook his head. It was _clear_ to his paranoid mind that Strongarm’s _schedule_ included the two _medics_ actively fragging. He wouldn’t be surprised if they announced sooner than later that there soon will be a _newspark_ on its way.

 

 

* * *

 

“Will there be a newspark soon on its way???”

 

Skywarp widened his optics in true surprise as Thundercracker facepalmed and Starscream sighed loudly, spatting.

 

“Of course there will be, _moron_. Have you ever heard of _Glitchwave_ somehow having any _trouble_ getting and keeping sparked? I’ve heard from safe sources that he once overloaded during spark-releasing protocols. I bet that if he just _refuels_ too close to any other mech he gets _sparked_ , that must be the _reason_ why he never removes the battlemask except for our _glorious_ leader.”

 

Skywarp made a hurt face for a second, then draped himself all over Thundercracker’s lap, nuzzling his face against the crook of his neck.

 

“Can we have one too T.C.? Please? I always wanted to carry! I want you to be the sire! No offense, Screamer.”

 

“We have gone through this already, Warp: not while the War is underway. You don’t want our bitlets to offline in war, do you?”

 

Skywarp shook his head, getting comforted by Thundercracker, as Starscream makes a gagging motion.

 

“Besides, we don’t have enough energon for everyone who wants to start _reproducing_. If our _brilliant_ leader provided a steady source of energon instead of sitting there and making _scraplets_ with the _tapeglitch_ , we might not be currently scraping the bottom!!!”

 

* * *

 

 

“We are currently scraping the bottom.”

 

Arcee knew: Chromia knew: _Moonracer_ knew.

 

Firestar just didn’t care: having forced Nautica to come along to their hideout, she just managed to add one more _tank_ to keep fuelled.

 

“Can I keep her? She followed me here!”

 

 _No I didn’t_ , thought the currently _gagged_ and bound female.

 

“You are aware that what you did is kidnapping, right?” Arcee squinted.

 

Firestar was: as soon as Nautica turned on her heels to make her leaving, she jumped her _amica endura_ and struggled with her against the ground, only stopping the instant she managed to make sure she wouldn’t _leave_ to hide again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ironhide. Again? The sun is barely rising.”

 

First Aid sighed as he opened the medbay to receive the mildly scrapped Ironhide.

 

“What can I do? Blaster _loves_ me. He found me attempting to pat _my own creation_ Ramhorn in the head and lashed out. No wonder I avoid the scraplets! At least he didn’t shoot. He’s getting good at _that_.”

 

Observing the multiple scratch marks and a few surface energon lines leaking, First Aid motioned for him to get into the berth, starting to work.

 

Suddenly, Ratchet came in, grumbling and muttering something about needing to grow a _pair_ and collecting every single datapad on his desk, on the ground, around the shelves, even the damaged ones, subspacing everything and leaving.

 

Blinking twice, First Aid decided he didn’t even want to _know._

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t even want to know.”

 

“But I didn’t say anything yet, Uncle Optimus!”

 

Optimus Prime donned Hot Rod his best _don’t uncle me_ glare.

 

“Yet.”

 

“Why do you think so low of me? Aren’t I the best possible successor for the Matrix?”

 

 _Primus, I hope not_.

 

“I will be dead before you even lay your hands on it, _Roddy the Hot_. Do you think I don’t _know_?”

 

“You just said you didn’t want to kn…”

 

“That was an idiomatic expression! Of course I know!”

 

“Then why are you so scandalised? What’s the problem of me stealing a ride or two or ten at Shockwave’s merry-go-round?”

 

Optimus facepalmed.

 

“Shockwave is a dumbass and can’t shoot for _shit_. I’m worried about _you_ and that _doctor_.”

 

Hot Rod snorted.

 

“Apparently I’m not the only one in the _family_ who ever fell for a _medic_.”

 

The Matrix-shaped paperweight was then unceremoniously flung at Hot Rod’s head, kicking away.

 

“We are _not_ talking about me! I’m long past _that medic_. Besides, this _Knock_ - _Out_ isn’t even a real doctor!”

 

“He would be if he had had the chance to take the _Order exams_!”

 

Optimus growled. He was currently _loathing_ the Medical Board of Cybertron.

 

“Well, he didn’t and he isn’t. Now do yourself a favour and _take those things_ away. You look _irresponsible_.”

 

Hot Rod looks at himself, admiring his multiple pierced _rings_ all over his chestplate kibble.

 

“I don’t think I will. I look _dashing_!”

 

“Hot Rod. I swear by Primus. If you keep disobeying me I will make sure that in the event you one day ever get to _captain_ a ship I will sic an A _utobot_ _Megatron_ as your _co-captain._ ”

 

Hot Rod then started cackling.

 

“Megatron the Autobot: that was just _Prime_!!

 

“Be careful with what you wish for, Hot Rod.”

 

“Whatever, _Orion_.”

 

Fists clenching and leaving dents at the desk, Optimus Prime’s optics suddenly glowed dangerously cobalt blue.

 

* * *

 

 

Cobalt-blue visor glowing, dangerously balancing a pile of _datapads_ in arms, _Shockwave_ walked past the officer’s hall.

 

Having been awoken by the autobot CMO (who looked like he didn’t recharge a single second) Shockwave stared with an appreciative nod at the pile of datapads the medic brought him, saying he caught all the datapads hanging around the medbay, _generously_ returning them, and finally ordering him _out and away_ before he ripped out his double medical processor and turned him into a toaster.

 

Shockwave, unfazed by the threat, merely nodded, took the datapads, thanked Ratchet for the opportunity to partake _white noise_ in the future again, bowed his head minutely, ducked a flying wrench, turned on his heels and left, very much intent in reviewing and filing his projects, now he had them in hands again.

 

His intentions were cut short the moment his audials caught the sound of _struggle_ dying from the Prime’s Office.

 

* * *

 

Prime’s Office door flung open in a single kick, as Shockwave came in balancing the datapads. Placing them by the door, he walked closer to the currently slagged mechs who until then had been _catfighting_ on the ground.

 

Eerily neutral, he flared his hand sensors _on_ and inspected both Hot Rod and Optimus Prime. That was an _opportunity_ he wasn’t going to waste. Clearing his vocalisers, he walked to them.

 

“I detect 41% damage in Prime's body. It requires immediate medical aid.”

 

Helicopter-moding and digging his hook in Optimus Prime's head, unfazed by Optimus’s protests, Shockwave flew around the corridors of the Ark hauling his charge, his head hitting every available surface including other autobots, as fire streaks spark around where his back had been scratched against the ground.

 

Prime screamed all the way from his Office, until the repair bay, on the other side of the Autobot base: once there, his fuselage was full with dents, he had lost most of the paintjob in his back, and had a big leaking hole where the helicopter had dug the hook. He could barely moan from pain, and somehow his left arm had disappeared.

 

“Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid. I have my first real _emergency_ in hands. Make room.”

 

Practically throwing Ironhide out of the slab he was in – no matter there were three perfectly empty others available – with First Aid in tow (observing horrified the empty socket in Optimus’ shoulder as Ironhide decided he was better off _not_ getting fixed now, just plainly _leaving_ the medbay), Shockwave placed Prime on the slab with a _thud_.

 

“I will close your leaks. It would be _Primely_ to self-sacrifice saving on resources during the effort of war and refuse anaesthetics.”

 

Optimus blinked: he liked anaesthetics, especially when he was in pain. In no way he is refusing!

 

Before he could voice his preference, First Aid, just returned from out of the bay, having found Prime’s lost arm, brought it in a hurry.

 

“You may _go_ now _._ I _will_ fix Optimus, Strongarm.”

 

Shockwave nodded indifferently at the arm that First Aid brought there, dismissing his colleague.

 

“I do not doubt your skill, Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid, but this _procedure_ is mine. I have been _chevroned_ with honours; I am familiar with basic _anatomy_ and _repair_.”

 

Flaring his visor in annoyance, First Aid stomped out of the medbay, intent in locating Ratchet.

 

Turning to Optimus, Shockwave loomed his battlemasked faceplates right above Optimus’ own face, his right hand digging into the usual _medical override_ location, at the left side of a mech’s hip, getting access to the Prime’s _medical_ port.

 

“I will download your _blueprints_ , Prime.” - he dug his medical data cable into the autobot’s systems, hacking him in - “You should be honoured to be my _first_ since Ratchet _chevroned_ me. I am in dire need of _solo practice_.”

 

Shockwave turned to the ripped off shoulder, poking the wires dangling from the arm.

 

“Fascinating structure. You should be proud of the work the _Matrix_ did on your shell.” he hacked further into Prime's frame, taking notes of all the changes _she_ did on his body, since he had been the poor archivist _Orion Pax_.

 

Via his medical _cortical psychic path_ , downloading files at will, including the blueprints and spark frequency signatures of every mech that the Prime ever came across, with no regard to privacy, Shockwave delighted himself, as the autobot leader twitched “...now be still like a good _test subject_ before I get to the procedures.”

 

Immediately coming to attention, Optimus Prime widened his optics in abject horror, going berserk.

 

“What? I’m not a test subject!”

 

Shockwave turned eerily slowly towards the autobot leader, who flinched at the cold sight.

 

“Optimus Prime, Autobot Leader, may this _medic_ know why? I have been properly evaluated, and I am technically capable of operating on all living circuits.”

 

“You were supposed to be an enforcer, not a _medic_!!!”

 

“Irrelevant: you were supposed to be an archivist yet you are _Prime_ – chosen by the Matrix. We are both _out_ of our original _functions_. Do not be prejudiced: I am _chevroned_ : Ratchet cleared me up.”

 

“Just because he taught you it doesn't make you good!!”

 

Feeling less dizzy, he sat at the operating berth. _Strongarm_ , unfazed, pushed him back down.

 

“I had a result rate of 98% success on the Board’s Exams. The lasting 2% were inevitable statistic casualties. I am _more_ than merely _good_.”

 

With a _clank_ , stasis-cuffs appeared in each of his remaining limbs. Optimus cursed.

 

“Optimus Prime, I advise against being such an uncooperative subject.”

 

“Don’t touch a finger in me!!

 

Shockwave, ever patient, concluding that reasoning with this kind of stubborn test subject was a waste of time, finally caught Prime's loose arm in hands and hit him loudly in the head: the unconsciousness wouldn't last for long, though.

 

Taking off the stasis cuffs, the disguised decepticon dug one finger underneath a lateral chestplate seam, overriding he inner locks of Prime's chest: it whirred slowly open, revealing nothing less than the Matrix.

 

Hypnotised, he couldn’t take his visor away.

 

* * *

 

 

He couldn’t take his visor away.

 

Unblinking, Soundwave merely stared.

 

His tiny BW TM Megatron toy was totally, completely, broken, in a myriad of tiny pieces across the ground, in the middle of the mess hall.

 

Catching them delicately between his huge blunt fingers, he gently deposed them into his palm.

 

As soon as he discovered who did it, there would be hell and mayhem.

 

* * *

 

 

Hell and Mayhem swirled into Shockwave’s thoughts: he could already see himself holding the Matrix and handing it to his _Lord_ , as the autobots weep and grind their dental plates in pain and sorrow.

 

Blinking back to reality though, alone on the repair-bay, Shockwave kept staring at Optimus, and at the Matrix. Slowly leading the hands to it, fingertips grazing the fused silver handles, he stopped, hearing the life-support system's computer warn about Prime's still leaking wounds.

 

Looking between the object of his desire and the Prime, Shockwave hesitated for a while, stared coldly at both and decided to leave the Matrix where it was and to reattach the arm first.

 

Logic dictated it would do no good to have a dead Prime for now.

 

Having the original blueprints hacked from Optimus Prime already in his systems, Shockwave proceeded to repair the major injuries: as soon as the autobot was out of peril, the decepticon finally settled his optics back at the Matrix, leading his left hand towards it, slowly.

 

* * *

 

 

Slowly leading his left hand towards Starscream’s neck, Soundwave stared eerily void of emotion at the darkened faceplates of the SIC.

 

“I didn’t do it! I had no idea you even _owned_ such thing!!! Release me! Why am I being targeted???”

 

“Primary suspect: Skywarp. Reason: VOPed into Soundwave’s office right before toy went missing.”

 

_Of all the places Skywarp had to VOP into._

 

Starscream grimaced, _knowing_ Skywarp might be stupid but _not_ to the point of just destroying a toy, especially not something from the tapeglitch.

 

Considering his case exposed, Soundwave released Starscream’s neck.

 

“Soundwave: wants _replacement_ toy _or_ Skywarp’s _spark_ in the next Solar Cycle. Starscream has _choice_.”

 

Dumbstruck, unblinking, Starscream wondered how difficult would it be for him and his trine to exile themselves away for good.

 

* * *

 

 

Going away for good, Reflector (the three compounds separately) just landed at the beach, each carrying their own stick and bundle, intent in self-exiling.

 

You see. Poor Reflector was innocently taking pictures of Soundwave’s immense collection of transformer’s toys, the moment he∕they struggled trying to transform that dreaded T-Rex Megatron, finally being awfully unsuccessful and managing to completely _obliterate_ it.

 

Knowing no punishment would be enough and that they had no means of obtaining another commemorative _10_ _th_ _Anniversary Deluxe BW Megatron_ , they knew their fate would be dire, and decided upon leaving the premises.

 

They had no idea on where to go though: the autobots wouldn’t believe they were not there to produce _compromising pictures_.

 

It left them the option of going to Cybertron via Space Bridge to hide among the Neutrals.

 

Who knows. They might get to find their photographic _muse_. They certainly had the skill and the optics for finding gorgeous mechs. Some mecha were practically born to pose, and the world direly needed beautiful suggestive images of mechs willing to be other mecha’ forbidden objects of desire, to set optics upon.

 

* * *

 

 

Setting his optics upon on the object of his _desires_ , Ratchet, just entering the medbay, stopped dead on his tracks.

 

He had come in time to see _Strongarm_ slowly leading his hand to the inside of Prime’s chest.

 

Shaking his head, he walked closer, finally clearing his throat and calling for his _fellow medic_ ’s attention.

 

Coldly taking his hand away from the Matrix he nearly touched, Shockwave turned to the direction of the voice.

 

“Greetings, Chief Medical Officer. I am occupied with my first case since the _chevroning_.”

 

Ratchet squinted, approaching and towering over the unconscious Prime, protecting his optics from the luring _glow_ of the Matrix, at the same time unable to stop staring.

 

“Yes, First Aid _told_ me.” He recalled, the image of _First Aid_ shrieking in panic about Optimus having been hauled to the medbay filling his processors “I am still in a bad mood but I came to see how everything _is anyway_.”

 

Shockwave wondered how much of the whole thing Ratchet witnessed, and even before he asked, the autobot continued, shifting his glare from the Matrix to the blue visored mech, as Prime _groaned_.

 

“What dose of anaesthetics did you use? He seems slightly _awake_ to me.”

 

“None yet, Chief Medical Officer: the Prime would not allow me to properly anaesthetise him when I tried asking for his _consent_ to be put under. I believe I might have him under earlier if it were not for the burden of obtaining informed consent. The test subject was finally uncooperative, so I hit him repeatedly in his head to ensure immobility, whenever required.”

 

Ratchet blinked twice at the idea that consent is a burden, made a mental note to incur in ethics classes once again - these were _patients_ , not _test subjects_! - and tired of having to deal with this _crap_ , finally sighed, and proceeded to briefly inspect the reattached arm, nodding his approval.

 

* * *

 

Nodding his approval, Starscream smirked as Thundercracker surfed on the web and Ebay in search of the dreaded BW TM Megatron toy: they knew their stupid trinemate didn’t do anything this time, but his _reputation_ of prankster didn’t help and their only way out of this mess would be to get the stupid thing for the tapeglitch to leave Skywarp alone.

 

“It’s this one, right?”

 

“According to the leftover _box_ , yes. Just bid it, I want to get this through soon, and make sure we are getting it _in person_. Once it’s settled, we all are locating the _real culprit_ , oh, we are.”

 

Nodding, Thundercracker bid the toy’s final price, effectively _buying_ it: they couldn’t afford to bid and _gamble_ the last 10 th Anniversary Deluxe BW TM Megatron _still in its own box_ of the whole Ebay.

 

Mistress _Luck_ didn’t seem much benevolent to them, to just leave things for _chance_.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m not leaving things for _chance_.”

 

Prowl nodded, watching Red Alert rewire and rework most of the cameras they could to make sure they record _Strongarm_ ’s and Ratchet’s routine outside of their rooms: they had to gather evidence to corroborate their theory that the newly chevroned _medic_ was indeed a liability.

 

Certainly the live soundless video feed of the medbay, with Ratchet inspecting Strongarm’s surgeon work was not enough proof of ill intent, especially not when the Prime was left to recover strapped on the slab, Strongarm turning on his heels and swaying hips right, finally leaving, Ratchet’s blue optics boring into his rack as he went away, as Red Alert pointed very agitated to the screen.

 

“See? I told you. They do!”

 

Prowl shook his head.

 

“They _do_ not.”

 

“Primus, Prowl, how can you be so deep in denial!”

 

“Trust me, they have not and are not yet _doing it_ as you point. You will know the difference if they ever do. I admit the potential however.”

 

“The same way you do _not_ admit we _totally did it_ that night we got overcharged???”

 

Prowl stiffened.

 

“We have no evidence that we ever did anything, thus we never did, Red Alert.”

 

Red Alert twitched his finials.

 

“We do not have any evidence that we did _not_. We could always have the log checked.”

 

“We are not going through this again. We have no medic reliable enough to tell us what we did, so forget it.”

 

Sighing almost disappointed for not knowing, Red Alert rested his head on a hand, elbow at the desk; so much for them both being too uptight stiff.

 

* * *

 

“Nah, the’re too uptigh’stif.”

 

Inferno shook his head, smirking, as Jazz lounged on his side, at his pal’s office’s loveseat, having a plain cube of mid-grade.

 

“Ok, we know they didn’t, but what if they resolve the mental torture of not knowing is too much and they just decide to save themselves the pain of not knowing by merely shrugging and _doing it_?”

 

Jazz nearly choked on the energon then.

 

“Ol’Prowler, my _future_ courted, da virgin, doin’the nasty? Da only reason he don’t have his seals anymore’s cause he feared on’day getting’ captured an’ wan’ed da enemy t’have _nothing_ to _torture_ him with an’ tol’ Hatchet t’surgically take dem’away!”

 

* * *

 

 

Ratchet stared as Strongarm went away, finally growling and glaring at the still unconscious and restrained Prime.

 

He might be a medic and supposed to _care_ , but he could leave the caring part to First Aid for a change. It’s not like _Optimus_ cared anymore.

 

Shrugging and staring at his desk where he still had a full leg to work on, he asked himself grimly if things might have been different had not the War come underway and forced the Matrix on _Orion_ : Ratchet couldn’t put a finger in it, but he was positive Prime’s change of spark could only have to do with the heavy modifications imposed by the Matrix, that most definitely looked to be slightly more than meets the eye.

 

Finally giving up on working and thinking himself allowed to have some reprieve, he moved to his hidden high-grade stash right behind the medical grade energon, taking half of one cube and heading to his quarters for properly private sloshing time on.

 

He had two chevroned medics under his command now, and for once he could indulge without fear of being _direly_ needed as before, even if First Aid was a bit too soft and Strongarm slightly too hard. Their combined technical skill was more than enough to deal with the usual madness that came through from daily autobot matters, and the decepticons had been too sedate during the whole last year since they managed to _disappear_ under the sea.

 

Snorting as he felt the first ounces of high-grade filling his systems, he shook his head: Megatron certainly had to be plotting something during the last year, but for once he trusted the neurotics Prowl and Red Alert to know what they were doing and keeping close watch on really important security matters.

 

As long as all the cogs were rolling in place well oiled, Ratchet knew he could slip just a bit, like now.

 

The Prime would certainly be _fine._

 

* * *

 

 

“Soundwave: _fine._ ”

 

Soundwave visibly sagged, in between depression and anger at the destruction of his prized toy, counting the moments until the deadline he set upon the seekers, as Megatron shook his head at the impressive display, very much aware his first mate was not _fine._

 

“Very well, if you won’t talk about it. I suppose you won’t _mind_ that I will try to _talk_ to Shockwave instead.”

 

Megatron faked making his leaving, knowing that usually it got a stir out of the tapedeck, ultimately unsurprised that this once it didn’t: Soundwave seemed deeply immersed in his own worries, and he was not the one to tell him to _chill_ because of _just_ a toy.

 

Megatron knew about how _much_ Soundwave _liked_ that stupid tiny toy, and was very aware of which battles were _worth_ fighting and even more importantly, which battles he could _win_ , and a moody, _sparked_ Soundwave was not _something_ he wanted to fight.

 

Getting implicit _permission_ , not that he required any but it was just polite to _inform_ all parties involved, he moved to his comm station, turning the screen on and setting the coordinates to reach Cybertron.

 

Megatron wanted to request a meeting via _Spacebridge_ : he had a nagging feeling that there was something very amiss with Shockwave, and only a real-life meeting with the touch of their EM-fields might bring him peace of mind since Soundwave wasn’t being _helpful._

 

He waited and waited, until the screen turned on, but strangely Shockwave was not on-screen, eagerly waiting to greet him. After the silence was too much, he finally spoke.

 

“Shockwave!”

 

* * *

 

 _Shockwave_ , the sparkless drone left on Cybertron, dutifully engrossed in reviewing the myriad of charts about what he still could do with Megatron’s _energy_ left on stock, never noticed _Lord Megatron_ screeching from the screen on the background.

 

“It sure can get lonely up here. Boring. I’ll shoot an asteroid!”

 

Shockwave the Drone readied himself to shoot as Megatron tried fruitlessly getting his attention.

 

“ _Shockwave! Megatron calling Shockwave! Answer immediately! Shockwave! Why aren’t you answering? There’s nothing to do up there!”_

 

Finally hearing the distant screeching of Lord Megatron, the drone nearly tripped on his own feet as he rushed towards the flickering screen.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Hail Mighty Megatron. How may I serve you and your greatness?”_

 

Megatron sighed. Sometimes _Shockwave_ spoke so much like a _drone_ it hurt.

 

“You could serve indeed. There is something bothering me and I ask that you open a spacebridge for us to _talk_ in person.”

 

 _I need to see you_ , thought Megatron.

 

The drone stalled, searching his databanks for the appropriate reply for this request.

 

He had not been provided a prompt answer for Megatron requesting them to _meet_.

 

Being provided an AI with an automated self-responding system, he was at a loss about what to respond. He was not supposed to meet in person with Lord Megatron: he was just his master’s _drone_ and placeholder. Lord Megatron would find out his master had left the drone in charge of Cybertron the instant they met and he did not locate his EM-field or his spark frequency.

 

He had no chance to voice his conflict though: When Megatron was about to lash and just _order_ the unwitting _drone_ to _open the fragging spacebridge already_ , the _drone_ suddenly jumped on his seat at the loud klaxon _alarm_ roaring.

 

* * *

 

 

The loud klaxon roared as Megatron, observing through the screen, widened his optics, bracing himself: he was about to witness first-hand his _guardian_ defending Cybertron from the female autobots!!!

 

* * *

 

 

“Feeemale autobots! You cannot defeat the Mighty Shockwave!!!”

 

Jumping from his position, Shockwave the Drone whizzed his arm-gun in a purple gleam as his single optic shone darkly and he opened his comm to the Chief-drone of his myriad of security drones across the facility.

 

“Mighty Shockwave. I detect you have our great Lord Megatron on call.”

 

Suddenly proud and forgetting the approaching feeemale autobots, the Shockwave-drone puffed up, remembering how he never gave up on trying communicating.

 

“…but I never gave up. And then one day, out of the blue, I made contact with Megatron. It was the first time, in over four million years, that I have spoken with Megatron.”

 

Nodding appreciatively, the drone monotoned.

 

“I love this story even more every time you tell it, Mighty Shockwave.”

 

“You were just programmed to say that.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well. Thanks anyway.”

 

“You’re welcome, Mighty Shockwave.”

 

As the drone _chatted_ with the other drone, the purple cyclops missed the moment Chromia and Firestar managed to take a truckload of cubes into their vehicle forms and leave unscathed, cackling.

 

Megatron, watching incredulously the scene depicted on his screen, facepalmed, visibly disappointed, finally comming off and _blocking_ the link for now, repeatedly hitting his head against the next flat surface.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Repeatedly hitting his head against the next flat surface with his _nape_ , Optimus Prime, tied up to the slab at the medbay, tried leaving his predicament to no avail, trapped.

 

Ironhide was right: he had to make sure to never undergo medical care again. It was obvious to him the _medic_ Strongarm was scheming to get him offline, and he was certain Red Alert and Prowl would back himself up.

 

Now if he would only leave this slab.

 

Jolting his head right at the hiss of a hydraulic door, he stared wide-opticed at the white, masked visage coming in.

 

“Prime? Oh, good to see you, I thought Strongarm might have damaged you.. further.”

 

First Aid approached to visually inspect the attached arm, nodding. Optimus shuddered.

 

“Release me! LET ME GO!!! I’m the Prime!!!”

 

Screeching, he never noticed First Aid disappear with the stasis cuffs, just screaming atop the slab, immobile, as the small ambulance mech squinted with his visor, briefly pondering if _Hook_ had the same difficulty in dealing with Megatron.

 

* * *

 

 

Megatron dealt with frustration the best way he knew: having just seen incompetence _enough_ , he needed an outlet to vent upon, wondering he wouldn’t mind to have a verbal and physical _spar_ with his lovely SIC. It’s been a while he didn’t lash out on his Air Commander for no good reason, and growling low, he asked himself where _Starscream_ would be now.

 

* * *

 

 

Starscream smirked with satisfaction at the fleeting crowd.

 

Having just VOPed up with his trine at the shores of Japan, on their root modes, they had been photographed ad-nausea as everyone screamed _Kaiju_ and _Jaeger_ excitedly, then started moving on their own accord to see the crowd parting and the streets clearing as they progressed further into the continent.

 

Once they reached the address where they were supposed to retrieve the dreaded toy from, they were even almost relieved to find the tiny human that had sold them the toy take one single glare at them, release the wrapped box where he had previously been standing, and finally run screeching at the other direction.

 

Shaking his head, almost smiling at the stupidly _easy_ retrieval, knowing Skywarp’s spark was finally safe, he decided he would take his delight and revenge in finding out who _really_ destroyed the stupid thing, so, Starscream, making sure to delicately catch the box, subspaced it, nodding wordlessly to his prankster trinemate, and sent Soundwave a very positive _ping_ as the world swirled to purple and the Nemesis’s darkened halls wrapped around their frames.

 

It was good to be _home_.


	6. Home, sparked home.

Home never felt so good.

  


And safe.

  


Obsessively cradling the tiny _unopened_ box with his brand new BW Megatron toy, Soundwave carefully prepared its place on its honour shelf, where a myriad of self-defence protocols would work to keep it safe within the room. He had to make sure no one would ever touch the object of his desires and dreams.

  


“BW Megatron: Soundwave’s _precious_.”

  


He cradled the box again, crouching against the box as the occasional whisper of an annoyed cassette came out of his frame, and he silenced each of the protests: anyone hearing might think him schizophrenic, had they not known he was a carrier loaded full of cassetticons.

  


Almost _cackling_ in a creepy vocoded monotone, Soundwave flickered his red visor around the room, looking for imaginary thieves: If anyone would one day lay optics and spark upon the _fictional_ BW Megatron, to claim his _property_ , it would have to be _him_.

  


* * *

 

  


“You. It has to be you.”

  


Ironhide defensively protected his chestplate, seriously considering requesting that First Aid moves his _spark_ to anywhere else on his frame, perhaps even his _aft_ (aft _spark_ , now that was a _great_ idea!): he was tired of a certain someone trying to get him offline _._

  


“Blaster, dear, how I miss your sunny disposition. What did you _think_ I manage to do today?”

  


“Ramhorn is _your fault_!!!”

  


Ironhide scratched his head.

  


“As far as I remember, I might be wrong, it takes _two_ mecha to make a newspark, and thus Ramhorn is _our_ fault. Besides, why only _him_? All the four _bitlets_ are _our_ collective fault!”

  


Blaster sneered, clenching his fists.

  


“Don’t play _Perceptor_ by trying to be smart with me, you oversized lug!”

  


“Hah, hah, and you don’t play _coy_ with me, I recall you rather _liked_ what this _oversized lug_ could do to all your _docks_!!!”

  


Ironhide couldn’t stop wondering that he suddenly _knew_ where Steeljaw took his _fierceness_ from, as growling and grimacing, Blaster simply jumped him, starting a vicious _catfight_ on the ground.

  


* * *

 

  


Viciously _catfighting_ , aheam, no, _mechly_ sparring on the ground, Megatron made sure to occupy Starscream’s time as soon as he finished delivering Soundwave the dreaded toy box.

  


On his side, Starscream couldn’t understand why he was being _punished_ by having to spar with his leader, since he apparently solved Soundwave’s problem with the toy and now his leader and the tapeglitch should be _interfacing_ and sparkmerging like there would be no tomorrow in every available surface, including vertical ones.

  


Megatron, on his side, was the only one who knew the true extent of his frustration: these days Soundwave seemed more interested in obsessing over _small_ , cradly, delicate things, which was totally normal and expected for a _sparked_ carrier-host who would in maybe a couple of centuries have in arms and docks one other _newspark_ to finally fuss over, and his other mate was too distant, unemotional and overall too _dronelike_ and _unreachable_ for Megatron to really do anything about it.

  


Shooing the bad thoughts away, Megatron growled and punched Starscream, who deflected and ducked, avoiding getting hit on his wings: Megatron refused to admit for himself he had even one day remotely considered taking Starscream for third mate.

  


It’s not like he was _starved_ in any sense: he truly didn’t even _need_ to interface that often, but Megatron wouldn’t mind having his own personal _harem_ of mechs to wholly dominate in all spheres, from professional to personal.

  


Of course Megatron rationally knew how much of a hassle it was to have more than one bondmate, but Soundwave’s _natural need_ for multiple, frequent links (due to being a multi-dock carrier host) added to Megatron’s _slave-damaged_ sparkchamber and his often painful _merges_ – which restricted their interactions greatly – certainly made sure that mostly for Soundwave’s sake, the two of them could not remain _monobonded_.

  


Not to mention social pressure on the _customs_ ran deep: Decepticons were only considered spark-strong whenever they trinebonded and proved capable of taking care of two bondmates each. As such, Megatron had to lead by example, and do his best in balancing his two radically different mates.

  


He snorted, positive that if Shockwave were not offplanet, Soundwave would, instead of obsessing over a tiny toy, certainly be hovering around him and leaving him no _time_ to refuel, like it used to be back on Cybertron, and at the same time his scientist would interrupt them at the worst possible moments with thrown datapads of projects to drone about, just because he could.

  


Talk about a jealously possessive tapedeck and an inconveniently clueless mad-scientist _fighting_ for _attention_.

  


Starscream was a brilliant scientist, a good Military Air Commander and to make things interesting, also a pretty aft and a smartaft: competition enough to stir up his two bondmates at the same time. Megatron was sure his life would become pure _hell_ the moment Soundwave and Shockwave decided it was _jealous_ _time_ and went on a special mission to occupy all of the tyrant’s time.

  


As such, contenting himself in using his SIC to discharge his frustration in more socially accepted means, he coaxed the screamer to react, expecting to be fully hit in the chestplates, grinning happily, indeed.

  


Things could be _worse_.

  


* * *

 

  


Things could be worse.

  


Shockwave walked the Ark’s corridors with rigid steps, body straight, hands clasped behind his back: he liked order in his life and he currently had a fully scheduled day of menial grunt medbay spring cleaning, from the afternoon on: the morning was mercifully free and he intended to use it for _planning_ on how to reach the Matrix again.

  


He recalled without a single hint of regret or pride about how his _fame_ spread around the autobot ranks: he was _Strongarm_ _the_ _Mad_ , the _medic_ that scared the _waste fluids_ out of The Prime, to the point Optimus openly started avoiding his exams and routine check-ups, refusing to be seen even by the kind First Aid and the understanding Hoist.

  


Logically, for Shockwave to warranty access to the Matrix again, he had to solve this particular predicament.

  


Entering the medbay to find his CMO dutifully ignoring his arrival and obsessively trying to calibrate his own hands by _hammering_ on them while sitting on his memory-foam mesh single seat, he tilted his head, pondering for a full second on the circumstances before taking the logical decision.

  


“Move.”

  


* * *

 

  


_Move_ _?_

  


Moving offensively into his personal space, _Strongarm_ unceremoniously parted Ratchet’s thighs, kneeling between them and ultimately sitting on his own pedes, the cockpit-chestplate effectively bumping against the red abdominal plates of the CMO.

  


Before Ratchet could think to voice on a protest, a certain pair of black hands captured his red ones, turning them palms up over the flat surface of the voluptuous chestplates, using it as a makeshift _desk_ as the battlemasked face never raised to meet his, blue visor inspecting very closely the unpolished, scratched red hands, a black index tracing with coldly calculated slowness a few dull age-old minuscule dents.

  


Shockwave had a mild _obsession_ with hands, having had his natural ones taken. He _knew_ what it felt to lose your own original hands, and these looked like falling apart.

  


“You should be giving the _example_ by displaying immaculately cared for medical servos, Chief Medical Officer. These must feel as terrible as they look. Do not you fear your hands may suffer from _premature_ degeneration?”

  


Ratchet blinked, looking down at the humbled heliformer, inspecting and touching his hands like a _slave_ would to a _master_ , then snorted: of course they wouldn’t undergo _degeneration_! He wasn’t about to begin _manicuring_ in the middle of the War: his name wasn’t _Knock-Out._

  


“I was _trying_ to loosen up my joints, as you might have noticed before you interrupted. Leave me now, I just need to remove this old oil and grease from the joints and I should be fine for a few more centuries.”

  


The black index traced one single glyph on the scratched palms now, that could either be taken as the one for _stubborn_ or the one for _stupid_ , the blue visor never looking up.

  


“There is no logic in not properly caring for the tools of one’s trade.”

  


Irradiating _heat_ purposefully from his own doubleforged hands now, coaxing the seams open and slightly easing the melting flow of greased lubricants in the articulation of each plate and transformable medical instrument hiding underneath each fingers, Shockwave stared under his visor as the CMO visibly stiffened, then rested against the back of the memory-meshed single seat, holding his ex-venting and offlining his optics, holding his EM-field tight.

  


_Interesting_.

  


“I wonder, Chief Medical Officer, when was the last time you had yourself checked on by _another_ medic. Disregarding cosmetic damage.”

  


_Why_ _treat_ _such_ _discreet_ _cosmetic damage_ , Ratchet ran on his processors as the droned voice rolled like _liquid_ beneath the warmth pooling on his two hands, his knees involuntarily closing against the cockpit-chest as the CMO’s optics remained shut off, Shockwave registering the sight and the touch.

  


_Very interesting indeed_.

  


Dialling down to the lowest settings possible into a slightly warm buzz, he waited for Ratchet to come out of the haze and online his optics back, finally monotoning.

  


“I have an enquiry. Now that the Prime is openly averting the medbay, how do you suppose to oblige him into his physicals?”

  


Ratchet blinked, having a sudden hard time to think with the heliformer tightly fitting between his thighs and knees, conflicting _urges_ filling his conscious mind.

  


Shockwave, still expecting his answer, kept pulsing slow warmth, easing the old grease off the seams, oozing it out of the red hands on his own black ones, then finally on his immaculately white chestplate, draining it down his own body, Ratchet’s optics following the steady flow until it came out of sight right on the white autobot interface panel between the heliformer’s legs, completely not minding the _mess_.

  


The _scientist_ hoped for a logical argument in favour of convincing Prime to open his chestplates again, exposing the Matrix; the _medic_ had no fragging idea, too worried about flaring his EM-field improperly to be able to think.

  


“No thanks to you, Sherlock.” he recalled the arm reattachment fiasco, smirking as the sudden _image_ of Strongarm turning his hands over and inspecting the spilt grease melted into liquid oils filled his sight and he suppressed a cooling fan from clicking _on_.

  


“The correct designation is Strongarm.” corrected Shockwave, unaware of the irony, unsubspacing a mesh to absorb the melted oil off the red hands. “The way he is evading us, we might only be capable to ever probe him under involuntary unconsciousness. I could arrange it. Together we would be _efficient._ ”

  


The last word was intoned in tandem with a tiny electric flow that flared _on_ Ratchet’s sensory net and definitely opened the finger’s plating, as Shockwave transformed his right index into a minuscule brush, starting to painstakingly slowly remove the last bits of still solid old grease from between the transformation seams.

  


_Very_ _efficient_ , absently thought Ratchet as his sight flared bright for an instant, suddenly returning to normal, and he blinked, his EM-field opening for a click, attempting to brush against the heliformer’s very tightly contained one.

  


“Unfortunately our Prime changed a lot.” The medic tried diverting the subject, almost whispering as Shockwave minutely stopped brushing the seams, standing to attention immediately: blackmail material incoming.

  


Judging by Ratchet’s reactions, it would be fairly mechanically simple to coax information out of the CMO.

  


Transforming his index back from tool and now effectively _holding_ the CMO’s hands, purposefully grazing both thumbs on each oversensitive palm maddeningly slowly, ever patient, Shockwave focused the bottomless cobalt-blue visor up, meeting Ratchet’s optics, bringing him a half-suppressed shiver.

  


Ratchet shallowed dry at the _sparkless_ sight, taking a quite profound look at the hidden lid within the feeding intake on the base of his neck, feeling for the heat also coming from the chestplate between his knees, the blue spark visible, spinning slightly faster behind the glass.

  


“I tell you as a medical secret. You have to promise to not tell anyone.”

  


Shockwave dipped his helm in a single respectful nod, tilting his head right, calculating his next step and revving his rotors, rotating his own paddles slowly on his back while keeping all air-vents closed, seeking to imply feigned interest by raising inner heat.

  


“I am _aware_ of how to manage secrecy. I was correctly _taught_ , as I am certain you recall.”

  


Deadpan, as usual: the cold _mad-scientist_ tone was doing _things_ to him. Ratchet squirmed on his seat, knees bumping the now most definitively _warmer_ frame.

  


“At the beginning of the war, the Prime and I were very close.”

  


Shockwave stared unblinking at Ratchet. He remembered the young Orion Pax that his science team back on Cybertron fitted with the ability to house the Matrix, before the Functionists decided he, Shockwave, deserved being Empurata-ed and Shadowplayed for being such an _anarchist_ anti-functionist back then.

  


“Aren't you going to ask how _close_?” Ratchet spoke, his voice deep with building charge, enjoying more than he should the heatwaves pulsing from the rotary into his sensory net in his hands, driving almost directly to his interface array.

  


Shockwave, opening one single air-vent to control his own temperature and avoid overheating, could have an idea of how close. He was no stranger to interfacing and knew the right steps to follow. He was emotionally blinded, not _stupid_ _._

  


“Is it _relevant_ , Chief Medical Officer _Ratchet_?”

  


Shockwave flared a purposeful brief _pulse_ of his own EM-field, testing the waters and receiving a definite _ping_ of _want_ , instantly suppressed as Ratchet made his best effort not to _moan_ , steeling himself and hoarsening his way through the next full phrase.

  


“Well, not anymore, anyway.” He shallowed dry twice “Since _Orion_ became Prime and the Council decided he needed a socially acceptable mate, Elita-1 became his _current_ , as he gave up on his... previous relationship.”

  


Shockwave imperceptibly stalled, yet kept rotating his rotors, slight arches of electricity flowing from the tips of his paddles each time they inched closer to the ground in a terra effect: he had a _feud_ with all _female_ autobots, especially those he knew and fought personally during the times _his Lord_ had to leave the Headquarters and the glitches got in to steal energon. It was merely convenience if not outright _Slagmaker's Irony_ he had taken upon a female autobot shell for his self-imposed mission into the trip offplanet after the autobots.

  


On his side, Ratchet seized the interruption to the methodical, steadfast rhythm applied on his whole sensory net through the unrelenting pulsed heatwaves and the calculatedly flaring EM-field, to contemplate the rotating rotor slowly increasing speed and _think_ that very few times he had felt so overcharged with so few stimuli, licking his lip-plates once as his sight wandered to the immutable faceplates so close and so far from his interface array, cursing _Shockwave_ for having locked _Strongarm’s_ faceplates away, behind the battlemask.

  


“I comprehend, Chief Medical Officer.” Shockwave vocoded, looking up from his _safe_ position of volunteer submission “It is logical that the Prime would decide to take onto a _traditional_ mate, supposedly more befitting of a Prime, instead of defying the _customs_.”

  


Bitterly, Ratchet raised the corner of his lip-plates in barely contained rightful anger, grimacing at his memory of the Prime telling him away before his official _Priming_ , as his own EM-field flared with dark determination, and _that_ got Shockwave a _genuine_ response as he recalled his _Lord_ in his greatest _scowling_ glory, his whole plating loosening and genuine warmth rolling in waves out of between the transformation seams, adding to the bubble of _heat_ that their two shy-of-interfacing entwined bodies already formed in the room. Unfazed and unashamed however, he droned further.

  


“The Prime made a logic, yet _pathetic_ selection of mate by disregarding his very _competently skilled_ Chief Medical Officer.”

  


Black hands suddenly leaving Ratchet’s and in one single move lifting himself up and _straddling_ the CMO, mercilessly _gripping_ his shoulders and focusing on the _scowl_ , battlemask to face at touching distance, Shockwave unashamedly let his weight down sliding his ventral parts down over Ratchet’s, slowly inching _close._

  


* * *

 

  


_Close_ to glitching, feeling like he was watching bad soap-opera, Red Alert couldn’t unglue his optics off the screen, as he insistently pinged Prowl to come and see that he was _right_.

  


There they were at _interfacing_ distance, no, _proximity_ , the room’s temperature raised to near uncomfortable levels registered on-screen, no one scheduled to come in, privacy ensured behind medically coded doors: only another medic could get in and interrupt them, and First Aid was under his recharge cycle now.

  


They were _alone_.

  


And _willing_.

  


Not to mention they apparently forgot that the medbay weren’t quarters and the absence of cameras was _not_ an option.

  


Ready to enjoy the incoming _show_ in a squirming, agonised, do-not-want way, torturing himself with the visible realisation about what he deep down already _knew_ , Red alert admitted his shameless voyeurism, automatically hitting the _send_ button in an attempt of getting Prowl there.

  


He was the _sharing_ kind of voyeur.

  


Wrongly hitting the _decepticon attack_ _alarms_ instead, he watched in dismay the previous scene _crumble_ instantly.

  


Whispering _no, no, no_ , Red Alert kept staring as the CMO currently on screen _startled_ and lifted Strongarm up, rotating in his heels and placing him sitting on the very mesh foam seat he just left, instantly looking around for tools and preparing to the impending medical _emergency_ , grumbling around the bay, separating instruments in trays, stopping finally still at slab number one.

  


On his side, Strongarm just _eerily_ slowly left the seat, amazingly unfazed, unaffected by the alarm and by the sudden end of what looked like a potentially _hot_ interface session, and walked by in sheer calm in an orderly fashion readying his own tray meticulously with instruments as well, taking possession of slab number two.

  


Finally, to complete the scene, First Aid unlocked with his code the door and stormed in, frantically screeching about them having to get ready and positioning himself at the third slab, stopping _very_ still and glaring at the other two medics in the room, clearly _puzzled_ behind his battlemask.

  


* * *

 

  


Puzzled behind his battlemask, First Aid took the environment readings, perplexed at the raised temperature, shifting his glare between the two other mechs ready by the slabs.

  


Ratchet looked just _unnatural_ in his forced tranquillity with his current lack of grumbling and cursing, as he stared rigidly towards the now open medbay doors, avoiding looking around.

  


Strongarm appeared completely calm, his _white_ , visibly stained cockpit glass and abdominal plates glimmering with old oil streaks standing like a _sore_ sight to the smaller ambulance: no self-respecting medic should allow himself to be that _dirty_ before having seen a single patient, and as far as he saw, the medbay was clear.

  


Asking himself what might have been on, making sure he had read right that both their core temperatures and spark-spinning rates were raised, the two white bodies glimmering under his infrared camera view, First Aid once more focused on the grease streaks that had apparently dribbled out from a single source into the chestplates and down, trailing an interesting pattern right over the ventral white plate, disappearing between Strongarm’s thighs.

  


Holding an in-venting as the minutes clicked and not a single injured autobot came inside, First Aid noticed Ratchet finally steal one glance towards the immobile statue-like Strongarm, the faceplates of _duty_ in his stillness _,_ then glare at his own hands almost guiltily, and finally _growl_ , grumbling something about _Red Alert_ going to pay for the _false_ alarm, as the smaller ambulance-mech got to the conclusion that he _really, really didn’t want to know._

  


* * *

 

  


“I don’t want to know.”

  


Prowl didn’t. He really didn’t. He wasn’t getting paid enough for this scrap.

  


He had been _viciously_ pinged by his Security Director for no _logical_ reason and had been dutifully ignoring him; as Prowl underwent a necessary defrag cycle of his Battle Computer, suddenly the _decepticon attack alarms_ roared, with every single warrior except for the _autobot high command_ gathering at the front doors of the _Ark_ to wait for the incoming _cons_.

  


Even the previously fighting, dirty, scuffled, scratched and strangely _smug_ Ironhide posed with his yellow paint transfers across his frame and his chainguns up, as an apparently scowling Blaster growled low (equally dishevelled and displaying equally suspicious scratches and complementary paint transfers) and murderously shifted his glare between the other autobots, ready to sic Steeljaw and Ramhorn into anyone who dared ask, especially the incoming decepticons.

  


Who never came by.

  


So, as soon as Prowl received a very _furious_ , heat-emitting CMO breaking into his door with a single _kick_ and hitting him once with his faithful cybertronium _wrench_ , grabbing him by his chestplates with his two red hands stained with apparently _melted_ and re-solidified grease, complaining on the false alarm that _disturbed_ him earlier in the medbay, the autobot SIC knew someone had fragged _royally_ this time.

  


* * *

 

  


“You have royally _fragged_ this time.”

  


Red Alert, currently considering changing his name to _False Alarm_ , just hid his _glitching_ finials behind his palms, regretting the endless string of punishing _speeches_ he received from no one less than Optimus Prime, under Prowl’s scowling optics.

  


Inferno, his ever faithful _bonded_ that Red Alert believed sometimes was out to get him too, did his best to soothe the paranoia-laden mech, but sometimes there was no working around.

  


“I know. Ironhide snapped a loud slap behind my head, glitching my finials, Prowl gave me the _scowling_ treatment, Strongarm merely walked by with those _telling_ oil streaks down his plating ignoring everyone who gaped at him and headed to the washracks, First Aid just looked _hurt_ , Ratchet was beyond murderous and the Prime forbade him of coming into my presence because neither of the other medics were going to be _able_ to fix me if he truly put his hands on me, and even Blaster came by to glitch-slap me.”

  


He suddenly grabbed Inferno by his chestplates, shaking him.

  


“You do believe me when I say Strongarm and Ratchet were totally _doing_ it, right?”

  


Inferno sighed, patting Red Alert. The alleged security video feed from the medbay he was supposedly recording turned out static-laden and useless.

  


“Sure, Red, but unfortunately the evidence is lost. It will be difficult to convince everyone that you are right. Not that it’s anyone’s but their own business.”

  


Red Alert sagged his forehead against Inferno’s chest, getting tightly held in a soothing manner, unable to agree it wasn’t anyone else’s business: according to Prowl, Strongarm was a liability _for life_ and as Head of Security, Red Alert knew it was his duty to keep the heliformer’s liaisons under permanent watch. It was relevant!!!

  


It was useless to argue however when Red Alert, the mech who often cried _scraplet plague_ , failed to have evidence to show.

  


* * *

 

  


Red Alert failed to have _evidence_ to show.

  


For that, _Ratchet_ was truly glad.

  


Not that he _liked_ to have been interrupted back then, much less for the _false alarm_ of their paranoid Security Director, but the CMO was wholly glad he valued his patient’s privacy to the point of having _rigged_ the medbay’s security camera to depict yet _never_ record anything from there.

  


Not that he was _ashamed_ of having been serviced by the _skilled_ hands of his recently _chevroned_ colleague, or about almost surrendering to what he presumed would be the _hottest_ interface session _of his whole life._

  


It’s only that he now didn’t have the face to even remotely return to the point they had reached that day, just not having the _bolts_ of requesting a _hand_ from _Strongarm, the Mad_.

  


The fact that the next day he walked into the bay to find _First Aid_ nearly offline from unashamed _pleasure_ with his EM-field spread wide while laid on a slab as Strongarm performed basic _maintenance_ in the smaller medic’s hands, all plating open and instruments out for methodical cleaning _, didn’t help_.

  


The only thing preventing Ratchet of jealously lashing against the smaller ambulance – _who honestly couldn’t be blamed for enjoying –_ or even at Strongarm himself was the fact that he really had no claim on the heliformer beyond his own one-sided feelings.

  


That and the fact that his own _session_ had looked and felt much more _personal_ and a lot _less_ professional than the one done there in the open, where the only things touching First Aid were instrument-laden hands on instrument-laden hands, no real heat emitted, and not a single flicker of Strongarm’s EM-field could be felt, held very tight against his shell, as usual, even as the smaller ambulance arched his back and flared his visor white, going off on spot at the final _twist_ of the instruments closing the seams on his hand’s plating.

  


For some disturbing reason the image of a _sharewhare_ -drone _Strongarm_ with the white body decorated in shiny blue and black kibble, cobalt biolights pulsing, as the shadowed, imagined contours of a pliant blue folded _female_ port hiding behind off-white see-through pelvic plating filled his processors, as the coldly efficient mech brought mech after mech to overload without a single ounce of shame or pride, by any means necessary, and Ratchet _shuddered_.

  


“Greetings, Chief Medical Officer. You were not anticipated, yet I assure you your presence is welcome. I am done for the shift.”

  


Ratchet snapped his optics to the unashamed helicopter, who tilted his head right as he unceremoniously abandoned the _post-overload_ First Aid offline on the slab, coldly cleaning his own hands with solvent at the washsink, then drying them with a mesh, finally sitting on the single-seat mesh chair.

  


“Would you believe Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid actually scheduled time with me instead of Basic Maintenance Mechanic Hoist? I am _fascinated_ to see I currently have a full agenda for the next days. Even Commander Chief Arms Specialist Ironhide, Chief Science Officer Perceptor, Chief Engineering Officer Wheeljack and Chief Communications Officer Blaster signed up.”

  


Ratchet blinked at the _feat_ of having these stubborn _morons_ coming for maintenance of their own accord instead of the CMO having to yell and drag them into the bay for a change once First Aid’s gentle campaign _failed_ as usual.

  


Was it because _Strongarm_ just didn't care enough to even lash on anyone, never complained when mechs missed appointments, never tried to give them any _lessons of moral_ , much less made them change their habits for their own good?

  


Or was it the obvious less than clinical _benefits_ reaped by the maintenance added to the power of _gossip_?

  


“I will be making my leave now that you are returned, Chief Medical Officer. An eventful shift. We shall trade places within half a solar cycle.”

  


Ratchet shook his head at the retreating form, sighing, wondering that he certainly wouldn’t mind having the _lost_ footage to add to his own memory of himself and Strongarm under the _spot_ lights.

  


* * *

 

  


“Spot, _lights!_ ”

  


The three components of Reflector directed and shot the scene as the flashy orange mech _Roddy the Hot_ and his companion Knock-Out draped themselves one over the other in exaggeratedly lascivious positions, exhibiting their best features.

  


Smirking widely at his _rebellion_ , Hot Rod recalled the moment he returned, slagged, to the Space Bridge meeting point, hoping to take a ride at it once old Shockwave opened it up, finding the three dejected components sitting around a small bonfire, waiting as well.

  


Learning they were hoping to join the Neutrals and setting up a Photo Shop on Cybertron, Hot Rod, very much intent in displeasing _uncle_ Optimus just because he could, offered to take them along and setting up a meeting with his dearest _doctor_ Knock-Out.

  


Everything then went as well as it was supposed to, Knock-Out loving the attention and the photographing, Hot Rod getting accordingly _rewarded_ , the _Mod Shop_ previously abandoned to the moths now thriving as it sold both _mods_ and the pictures to accompany with it.

  


It was a total win-win. Take that, Prime, for thinking Hot Rod would not be a worthy successor for the Matrix!! He was already proving to be a great _administrator_!

  


* * *

 

  


“Such a _great_ administrator.”

  


Megatron snorted, reading through the endless streak of datapads filled by Shockwave’s comprehensive files on his projects for Cybertron’s reconstruction, sent through common comm by _Shockwave the drone_ , recalling his absolutely _terrible_ energon-stock defending skills.

  


It wasn’t that the files weren’t sound and logical or that Shockwave was wasteful: Shockwave just wasn’t fit to defend anything he had to _shoot_ upon, and Megatron realised with great _hindsight_ that it might have been better to nominate another guardian to remain on Cybertron back then.

  


Who, however???

  


Soundwave would have remained behind, out of loyalty, but Megatron would miss him plus _six loyal troops_ if the tapedeck stood behind, not to mention the whole spy net.

  


Starscream would have stayed behind gleefully and somehow find a way to overthrow him and take Cybertron’s command, and that just was not an option.

  


Shockwave did stay behind, but couldn’t prevent anyone of stealing anything, and for some odd reason was acting even more stupid than Megatron ever imagined he would.

  


The constructicons were sorely needed on Earth, but if they remained behind, Megatron might have had hundreds of phantom cities built during the last four million years, and not a single energon cube left.

  


Sagging, despite knowing how incompetent Shockwave currently was, his cyclopic mate _still_ ended up being the least terrible option left. At least he would never betray his _Lord’s_ trust.

  


* * *

 

  


He had betrayed his Lord’s trust.

 

And he truly didn't care a single bit.

  


Shockwave, visor offline as he rested his head on the back of the seat, just returned to the nightly shift, pretending not to care about Ratchet’s whereabouts as he _enjoyed_ his solo night at the autobot medbay, was currently seriously _conflicted._

  


Not because of his idea of purposefully pretending _interest_ to make the CMO _open_ _up_ and speak, intent in gathering _intel_ to get to the Matrix and ultimately _please_ his Lord. Good _spies_ so often traded _favours_ of this nature for info that _this_ was not the reason of his conflict. He would have _logically_ opened his panels if it meant success in the mission.

  


The reason for his conflict was probably currently _revving_ his white-noise generating engines in his own quarters, and Shockwave could not be there to seize it to take a deep recharge session as well.

  


Even still, it wasn’t “ _wanting_ to recharge” under the lulling thunder of Ratchet’s engines that constituted the betrayal.

  


The betrayal took place the instant he truly had wanted to get physically _fragged_ by the CMO, just for the sake of _getting_ fragged, no logic involved.

 

Not in as pretending it was his Lord: Shockwave didn’t do _pretending_ to himself. He knew it wasn’t true, so it wasn’t logical.

  


The truth is Shockwave, having _feigned_ his _interest_ in the deceptive session he intended to give the CMO, and purposefully having left himself _overheat_ and even brush EM-fields to better pretend for the sake of convincing the medic, ended up wholly _trapping_ his own self in his own _web_.

  


Faked reactions are only faked until the moment they are _not_.

  


The instant Ratchet had scowled and flared his anger and _regret_ towards the Prime, Shockwave, EM-field _open_ , couldn’t help his mind _mingling_ the medic’s displayed feelings and actions with the ones of his _Lord_ – on a totally different level – and with his early displays of submitting to the CMO to gather his trust… deep _logical_ confusion was _ensured_.

  


Rationally seeing now that embarking along for the _ride_ in trying to deceive the CMO had been an awful idea (for now his shell started having _real_ physical reactions towards the close possibility of interfacing a certain white and red, _warm_ and _willing_ frame), Shockwave found himself absurdly, almost illogically _wanting_.

  


He had actually _wanted_ Ratchet to have _kept scowling_ , flaring his _determined_ EM-field and just plain taking _over_ what the current heliformer had begun, _mechandling_ him into the edge of a slab or against the plain ground, just like his _Lord_ would, overpowering, growling, snarling and just _taking_ what was rightfully his, overriding his interface array locks with consensual brutality just shy of damaging, bringing on the few physical _things_ Shockwave’s shadowplayed self still could genuinely _feel_.

  


Having suffered _Shadowplay_ he cannot make the automated link between spark-emotional and body-physical anymore, and sees no logic in _displaying_ through physical action that he can still feel, albeit dulled, anything, to all effects giving the worldwide spread impression he feels absolutely nothing at all in his physical self.

  


Since Empurata and Shadowplay, his physical displays of _want_ were reduced to those he _chose_ to act on, body disconnected from spark and mind, which was why he knew he could just _fake the whole act_ and even walk out in the middle of interfacing without a single stir or visible frustration, no matter his logical willingness to be there or not.

 

In the objective of actively letting his bondmates know they were doing _right_ and were being efficient in bringing discharge and appropriately chartable overloads, he would act on their expectations to bring them their needed input. Shockwave required no displays for himself, but he still appreciated with cold logic whenever the _right_ reactions were there, having a special file for the truly prized and exquisite _sessions_ , and he knew his Lord and Soundwave unconsciously _required_ him to be a responsive mech.

  


He tried explaining them they didn’t need to wait for him to have any physical reaction to be sure they had his requirements met, that he would tell them whenever they weren’t, but he found out that every time he physically enjoyed the procedure and at the same time used his processing power to chart and calculate the event real time, instead of acting along with them, they were the ones left unsatisfied because they couldn’t coax _reactions_ from him and erroneously presumed he did _not_ enjoy it.

  


(The occasional _true_ limb twitch, back arch and involuntary _whine_ that sometimes came out of Shockwave spoke _volumes_ to the level of his physical satisfaction, and whenever a session elicited _these_ they were charted independently: perhaps there would be a workaround the Shadowplay one day, maybe even a partial reversion, and if once in a while his spark connected back to his _spontaneous_ bodily reactions, the data was important enough to be filed for later review and study).

  


Shockwave thus concluded that when he did act for _their_ sake, his bondmates were left doubly _happy_ , the tapedeck being extra-caring and his Lord _smug_ to the point of hand-fuelling him with tiny energon treats right on his fuel intake, and were even more intense and invested in the bond and other bouts of interfacing afterwards, thus solidifying the relationship.

  


At the hard _facts_ , Shockwave took the logical decision.

  


The _sparkbonded_ cold mad-scientist started to display even without any logic: better than having a sulking tapedeck or a growling Megatron around. Whenever his presence was _required_ by them, which wasn’t that frequently anyway, for he _knew_ he was merely secondary in their life and bond, he went along and played his part via automated subroutines. It was only logical to keep the bondmates _satisfied_.

  


Unfortunately, it was only _logical_ to presume his bondmates would not be _happy_ that he had deeply _wanted_ to be _fragged_ by the autobot CMO _._

  


Despite the timid request of his original purple array, to which he easily told _no_ , Shockwave neither felt personal shame or regret at his wanting; even in the event he actually succumbed and gave himself into interface, he would certainly have a _logical_ explanation for his apparent betrayal.

  


As such, following impeccable logic, since the only panel really _pinging_ to be let open (whose pliable blue port nearly begged to be used) was the _autobot_ one, Shockwave dismissed the event and his almost surrender as _inconsequential_.

  


Certainly coming back with the _Matrix_ would make his _Lord_ forgive his forbidden _wanting_ (even if Shockwave saw no reason to pay for having wanted), forgive him leaving Cybertron against orders, forgive him leaving his shell behind as a disguised drone to make him believe he hadn’t left the planet, forgive him sinking the Nemesis down the ocean by being a shit shoot, forgive him not returning to the fold and setting the stupid plan of joining the autobots and getting their trust, forgive him acting submissive around the CMO and faking reactions that ultimately reflected his true spark, forgive him never being able to get sparked a single time, forgive…

  


That Autobot Matrix should better be _worth_ it: Shockwave had a lot of _forgiving_ to ask for, and the faster he could leave to his Lord’s arms and _pay_ for all his mistakes during the last four million years, providing the means for the Decepticons to finally win the war, the better.

  


Just the prospect of kneeling and humbling himself to his rightful _Lord_ sounded so damn _satisfying_ that he could barely _wait_ to come home to his bondmates: who knows; Soundwave would probably be sparked again, and Shockwave almost _missed_ the tiny steps of a new _creation_ lurking around his Labs, even if it wasn’t _his_.

  



	7. Atonement

 

Ironhide scratched his head, puzzled, staring as if Blaster had grown an extra head, for once not having to defend himself, the tapedeck looking resigned and folding arms, sitting on a sofa at the Rec Room.

  


“What are you even saying; of course Ramhorn is mine. In truth he is the only one that actually resembles me, and I’m not talking about being a stupid lug. No offense to the other scraplets.”

  


“There is nothing you say or do, _love_ , that would offend me.” he shook his head “The truth is, Ramhorn isn’t yours, period, no matter that you _identify_ with him. It took me a long while to really convince myself as well. You indeed have scary similarities. I fooled myself too for five millions of years. I didn’t seek to deceive you. It wasn’t intentional.”

  


Only now getting to the realisation of what ‘not being his’ meant, Ironhide ex-vented: ok, they were already falling apart when Blaster last got sparked with the little _lug_ , but Ironhide never imagined by any stretch it wasn’t his, and that Blaster actually had betrayed him then. Even if it was unwillingly, as he claimed to.

  


“Who, then?” he looked down, for once truly regretful that he never properly sparkbonded and let things degenerate to this.

  


Blaster then cackled and just kept cackling, almost in tears.

  


He recalled well the day _after_ he was sparked with Ramhorn. The pull and tug at his spark was unmistakable, and he had no real need of getting scanned to know the newspark was there, like every good carrier-host.

  


He remembered nothing of the day previously to that. He had been on a terribly bad spell then, and he might have abused his high-grade when Ironhide was too busy with the _military_ to care, and he might have decided it would be nice to host a party as _The Voice of Cybertron_ while the _cat_ was away, and invite just plain _everyone else_ they knew into the engex-filled DJ party, just out of spite, namely the whole rest of the autobot fleet.

  


Truly, it could have been _anyone_. Blaster had no fragging idea of who sparked him. It’s not like anyone else but Ironhide have jumped to claim _Ramhorn_ as co-creator in the last 5 million of years, afterall. Out of shame? Out of ignorance and lack of probability? He didn’t know, and sometimes he thought it was better to deceive himself that yes, it had to be Ironhide, right? Who else besides _Ironhide_ would have brought to existence the fight-prone, barrelling cassettibot, fond of big guns and slightly slow to the point of near _autism_ on the processors?

  


The self-lies lasted well, until he caught himself staring at his _former_ partner patting Ramhorn’s head as a nice sire would, and it suddenly was just _too much_ for Blaster to keep bottling up.

  


No one could lie to himself forever, not without going mad.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you gone mad?”

  


He wished: Optimus Prime donned a resigned glare at Elita-1, who insisted, repeating her question.

  


“No, I’m not mad, Elita.” He finally replied “A Prime serves The Matrix, and _she_ told me in no dubious terms that it’s time for The Prime to produce a newspark.”

  


Elita sighed.

  


“In the middle of _War_. In this _rock_. With Megatron still alive.”

  


Nod, nod, nod.

  


“Rephrasing then: is _The Matrix_ mad?”

  


Optimus widened his optics at the open _sacrilege_.

  


“Elita-1. You always knew the reason for the Council to recommend on _you_ being my _arranged_ sparkmate instead of my _previous_ intended, whom I _left_ without further questioning and even any _decent_ explaining. You were appointed as the Matrix’ chosen mate for me, and we are expected to eventually produce a newspark once the Matrix said so. It finally did.”

  


He tapped his feet on the ground, sitting on his desk, as Elita-1 idly fiddled with his ornate Matrix-shaped paperweight.

  


“I repeat: is the Matrix mad?”

  


“I’m not discussing the Matrix’s _demands_ to you; we have already gone through this in the past. What the Matrix wants, it takes or makes happen, and so far _she_ had not been unreasonable. I am only warning you that there will be a newspark in _The Prime’s_ future, whether you want it or not, my dear Matrix-sanctioned _sparkbonded._ ”

  


Elita-1 snorted.

  


“And who will be carrying it, _you_? We both know about your _preferences._ ”

  


Optimus stilled minutely.

  


“My preferences are irrelevant. I usually don’t abide by _Functionism_ , but in this particular matter, your _form_ does define your function. Even with us being completely unbiased about it and abiding with _pure_ sparkmerge without any cable or port play otherwise, your spark will most probably call for the newspark to bind to you, not to me. Try to be graceful about it when it happens. The newspark doesn’t need to feel _rejected_ right from the start.”

  


* * *

 

  


Feeling _rejected_ right from the start, Ramhorn shifted a side glance to his three siblings.

  


Sure, they never outright cast him out, but he got tired quickly of being dismissed as too _stupid_ , just because he didn’t often engage into the activities they liked the most, like Rewind and his video recordings, which he shares with Eject especially concerning sports, and Steeljaw and his turbofox hunting.

  


Ramhorn just happened to prefer guns.

  


The bigger, meaner, more intimidating, the better. He envied Ironhide’s chainguns and often requested to be given a pair one day. He wanted to smash the decepticons to a pulp!

  


Was there something wrong?

  


* * *

 

  


_Is there something wrong_ _?_

  


First Aid came first time in the morning, lighting on the medbay and finding four helicopter paddles resting against the wall and _Strongarm_ currently slumped in an undignified ball, on the memory foam mesh seat, under deep recharge, the _empty_ energon centrifuge running on the background with the most obnoxious rattle the medic ever heard short of Ratchet’s snoring.

  


Taking a brief peek into the transparent glass cockpit and watching briefly the slow spinning spark, concluding Strongarm was indeed under recharge, he fidgeted with his hands, remembering how they had been professionally calibrated through and through and how _nice_ it felt.

  


He recalled being _ashamed_ of enjoying it so much, until Strongarm told, deadpan, he could stop holding himself and just _overload_ for all he cared, that it was a physical reaction compatible to the degree of sensitivity in his hands and expected due to the nature of the _medical_ hands involved, and that he absolutely didn’t _mind_ and would not judge whatever reaction he had, and only asked for him not to trash around and disturb the procedure in case he _did_.

  


With such _orders_ , what _subject_ would fail to comply?

  


So, overload First Aid did, as soon as he _let go_ , practically _on command_ and Primus, it felt _good_. He vaguely recalled Strongarm’s only reaction to him was to mutter a very low one _“Interesting.”_ halfway through the event as First Aid’s sirens almost flared _on_.

  


Nodding to himself, the smaller ambulance snorted; Ratchet wasn’t the most patient of all mechs, and by First Aid’s inference, connecting the greased streaks all over Strongarm’s plating with the CMO’s dirtied hands and his wholly _pissed_ act at the false alarm, the _hand job_ he had been probably receiving was certainly more _interesting_ than the one the protectobot got.

  


First Aid didn’t mind the impersonality of his own calibration though: unlike his CMO, First Aid already had a bondmate: not only he was sparkbonded to his whole _gestalt_ , he also had been into an even deeper relationship with Blades, the neurotic triggerhappy heliformer of the protectobots.

  


Snorting at the age-old _say_ that every single rotary is inherently _insane_ , and wholly agreeing as he recalled Blades doing his most dangerous stunts with his high manoeuvrability and total lack of self-preservation sense, he walked to the centrifuge, intent in turning if off.

  


The shift was over and it was time for Strongarm to go.

  


* * *

 

  


“Time to go, Strongarm.”

  


Shockwave blinked the visor _on_ as soon as the _background noise_ stopped, the visage of First Aid came to sight.

  


“Hum, yes, and you may call me First Aid.”

  


“I will keep that in mind, Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid.”

  


Dipping his head in a nod as the ambulance sighed, Strongarm stood up, clicking each of his paddles into his back one by one without sparing them a glance, glaring down at the now turned off centrifuge _._

  


“Will you be necessitating this amazing source of _white noise_ for the cycle?”

  


First Aid blinked.

  


“…white noise?”

  


Shockwave nodded, repeating the question word by word. First Aid scratched his head.

  


“….why.”

  


First Aid shifted his glance between the centrifuge and _Strongarm_ , who tilted his head.

  


“I happen to find the rattle of the empty energon tube dock trays as it spins very conductive to recharge.”

  


“You. You find the rattle is _conductive.._.”

  


“…to recharge.” Shockwave complemented, hoping to make himself understood.

  


First Aid just looked uncomfortable, trying to make sense of things.

  


“I… see.”

  


He truly didn’t. First Aid was actually regretting having woken up Strongarm, for a brief moment asking himself if the benefit of the excessively skilled _hands_ under the CMO’s _command_ was worth the amazing amount of awkwardness and _droning_ Ratchet had been submitting himself to since the arrival of Strongarm.

  


Out of the blue, then, _Strongarm_ unsubspaced a datapad, handing it to the incredulous smaller ambulance.

  


“In case you are ever interested, Rescue and Field Surgeon Protectobot First Aid, I have an incipient prospective study of the _positive_ influence of repetitive noise of various frequencies into influencing the quality of one’s recharge. So far I have been its single _subject_. Here are the plentiful charts I compiled on my own databanks concerning the whole year I have recharged under the constant presence of Chief Medical Officer Ratchet’s engine rattling rates. I wonder if you might volunteer to recharge on his presence for a similar amount of time so we can compare our own data. We might make a thundering breakthrough and _riot_ the scientific community concerning the development of more efficient recharge-inducing software to treat upper-processor ailments.”

  


Twitching at the overflow of _information_ contained in the single-subject analysis of all the nights Shockwave recharged under the influence of Ratchet’s snores, completely unwilling to produce his _own_ databanks, he blinked his visor twice, finally turning the datapad back into _Strongarm’s_ waiting hands, excusing himself in a whisper and ambulance-moding, playing his sirens and scurrying away, very much willing to take on a break from base and go for his gestalt.

  


Shockwave, absolutely unfazed and never offended, merely observed as First Aid went away, finally shifting a very _curious_ glare at the _lonely_ laboratory apparatus, _thinking._

 

 

* * *

 

  


“Are you _thinking_ I am only a _curious_ _laboratory apparatus_?”

  


Wheeljack glows his side panels in surprise as Perceptor grumbles his way through mathematical formulae during a _heated_ discussion via comms with Skyfire.

  


“Of course I will not fail to properly analyse the databanks: I am not the glorified _bus_ who is often in _orbit_ running away from duty into _space_.”

  


Wheeljack tilted his head right and left to an imaginary tempo regulating the trigger of his newest invention by spark, as Perceptor crossed his legs on his chair and lounged, removing the glass from his scope and polishing it to a glimmer as he listens to the gibberish spoken by the white shuttle.

  


“If you cannot be professional about it, then by all means go get yourself buried in ice again for the next ten millions of years for all I care. Perhaps a certain _seeker trine leader_ would be willing to retrieve you once again.”

  


Wheeljack nearly snapped his neck turning to face the now visibly _angry_ microscope, who managed to just _smash_ the glass in his hands with his bare hands, growling Skyfire an _icy_ farewell.

  


He hung up his comm with a distinct _trimmm_ , as Wheeljack flinched.

  


“Primus, Percy, what had gotten into you?”

  


“Can you believe the big white lug had the bolts of calling me a _laboratory_ _apparatus_!”

  


Wheeljack glanced briefly at the microscope mech, scratching his head.

  


“Well… thinking about it. You _are_ a laboratory apparatus.”

  


Wheeljack ducked a flying becker then, leaving the room intent in finding a place to hide.

 

* * *

 

  


He wanted a place to hide.

  


Having just been victim of Megatron’s _sparring spree_ for the hundredth time within the decacycle, Starscream was making sure to remain inconspicuous, unable to put his fingers into why his idiotic leader wouldn’t just _scrap_ him as usual, instead of _asking_ for a fight.

  


Megatron. _Asking_. It was clear for the seeker his leader was trying to play _nice_ , and it scared the waste out of his tanks: obviously everybody knew it was never good to be on Megatron’s bad side, but sometimes it wasn’t _good_ to be on his good side either.

  


Skywarp giggled stupidly and blurted out this amazingly _unscientific_ notion that Megatron had to be _in love_ with the seeker, Thundercracker smacking him up the head for the mere thought of it: they were _trinebonded_ , and if by any means Megatron ever one day bonded Starscream they two would be carried along in the bond as well.

  


Starscream shuddered at the thought of being _bonded_ at the same time to the _Slagmaker_ , the _Tapeglitch_ and the _Cyclopic_ _Drone_ : wasn’t it enough he had the _Warping Buffoon_ and the _Thundering Bore_ under his wing already?

  


There was a _reason_ why _triple_ bonds were usually only accepted among the decepticons, while bonded pairs were the norm for autobots: jealous infighting within a polybond is very hard to avoid, and only true _warriors_ like the decepticons could balance three mates at the same time together, unlike the _weak_ feeble minded autobots.

  


Suddenly the mental image of Megatron trying to prove his superior spark energy into handling a multiple-mecha polybond, with Skywarp, Thundercracker, Soundwave and even _Shockwave_ wearing biolight-glowing kibble and see-through plating, odalisque-like- _dancing_ around his leader, came to mind, and Starscream shook it away like he would an impending scraplet plague.

  


That was all the Decepticons needed: Megatron building up a _harem_.

  


Certainly good _Primus_ would never be _so mean._

 

* * *

 

  


Primus wouldn’t be so _mean_.

  


Right when he thought he finally had _medics_ enough to smoothly start running a medbay, he had to get this kind of news.

  


“First Aid. You are saying you want to take a _break_.”

  


First Aid nodded hopefully, fidgeting with his hands.

  


“It’s just a few days. My _connectors_ are aching for me to gestalt. Not to mention Blades had been threatening to kidnap me.”

  


Ratchet groaned, recalling the last time Blades actually did kidnap First Aid and took off in flight hauling a very unwilling ambulance, only for a couple of days later they both return fully sparkbonded as _conjux_ after so many _sparkmerges_ , First Aid asking to be scanned to be sure he wasn’t sparked, and asking them both to be installed the most efficient anti-sparking protocols Ratchet could find: he didn’t want either him or Blades to bring a newspark to life in the middle of this stupid war.

  


First Aid stared hopefully at his CMO: truly Blades didn’t threaten anything this time, and he wasn’t that aching to gestalt, but he had a feeling that his presence as a third wheel between Strongarm and Ratchet was _hindering_ whatever they might even remotely have going.

  


And far as First Aid could gather, _Strongarm_ appeared mildly obsessed with the CMO, to the point of finding a replacement for his snoring into their _centrifuge._

  


Not to mention Ratchet’s mood worsened 384% since Optimus Prime forced them into separate quarters.

  


“You are an _awful_ liar, First Aid.”

  


The battlemasked ambulance sagged. Ratchet shook his head.

  


“Fine. I don’t even want to know. Go for your _break_. I hate when you do that kicked turbofox look. Go before I change my mind, but when you return you’ll do double the shift!”

  


Practically somersaulting, First Aid hugged the CMO in a jump, burying and nuzzling his battlemask against the crook of his neck with the visor offline and Ratchet couldn’t help imagining it was another visor and another mask clinging to him, swallowing dry.

  


* * *

  


Swallowing dry, he clang to the last streaks of sanity he had.

  


“Why, why do you keep torturing me? Didn’t I _give_ _up_ enough already?”

  


The Matrix _hummed_ within his chest, happy with her decisions, as Optimus sagged on his chair, facepalming.

  


If anyone had any idea of what it was like to house the Matrix, he doubted anyone would envy him.

  


Oh, sure, it made him stronger and powerful and everything, but sometimes he thought it wasn’t entirely worth the effort, and that he would be happier if he had remained an archivist in Iacon. No matter that currently there were no more archivists left in Cybertron, and hadn’t he taken up on the Matrix he would probably be deactivated by now, with the rest of their dead planet, a mere _ball_ of metal free-floating in space.

  


He had to agree with Elita-1: it was a terrible moment to bring a newspark into life. Unlike the decepticons, they had sense, and the last accidental creation of the autobots had been Ramhorn, right at the beginning of the war, slightly before everything really went to the Well, as tell-tale _whispers_ filled his processors from within his chest and he looked down at his plating, speaking directly to the source of his problems.

  


“What would my Autobots think if they found we follow the whims of a _Capricious_ _Matrix_? That Megatron might be slightly _saner_ than _me_ for having never believed the Priestdom?”

  


The ghost of a _chuckle_ invaded Optimus’ inner systems and he braced himself, feeling _threatened._

 

* * *

 

  


He braced himself as his inner systems were _threatened_.

 

Soundwave wobbled in place, dizzy and holding against the communications console, stoically standing everything, finally glaring down his glass chestplate and monotoning.

  


“Newspark: _menacing_ : desist.”

  


He felt the budding months old newspark around his own ancient, weary, millions of years _old host_ spark, orbiting slightly faster, then subsiding to its usual slow and sedate rotating motion, Soundwave’s gyros finally falling back into place with a comfortable _pull_.

  


He remembered having had worse than that during his heinous _twins_ , especially when they decided spinning counter _and_ clockwise at the same time. These had been whole years Soundwave does not recall fondly.

  


He sat on his chair, just to make sure a new surprise spinning wouldn’t throw him off-balance again, recalling how he chose the name of each creation.

  


Ravage had truly _ravaged_ his systems with bouts of nausea and rage spells that often had Lord Megatron recharging very away from him just to stay on the safe side. Laserbeak tended to _beak_ with _laser_ precision like a vulture at his spark, and Buzzsaw wasn’t much better with his constant _buzzing_ slide, nearly _sawing_ through the corona of his spark in his diving spins. Rumble and Frenzy were nearly self-explanatory, as Soundwave was always running with empty tanks _rumbling_ as his processors _frenzied_ in trying to keep track of the motion of twin newsparks.

  


Nodding almost amused, he glared down his transparent glass, his blue spark flaring once, glad he was sitting as an eight-shaped spin was completed by the newspark around the corona within the sparkchamber.

  


Whoever romanticised sparking as being all flowers and sunrises was either never truly sparked or maybe just didn’t have Lord Megatron for sire: all his newsparks were wilful and true hellions in one way or another and this one didn’t look like it would be tame.

  


A tiny _Menace_ indeed.

  


How could he possibly get angry?

 

* * *

 

  


How could he possibly _not_ get angry???

  


He needed the energon centrifuge and it was nowhere to be found.

  


Calling First Aid for information didn’t work: _Blades_ answered and told Ratchet in no uncertain terms that he should respect their _break_ , as a whiny _First Aid_ screeched on the background of his own comm that it could be _important_ , the heliformer deadpan ignoring him and asking if Ratchet didn’t have anything better to do before coming off.

  


After invading the Lab and threatening Wheeljack to give it back, the inventor crouched and kept saying _sorry, sorry_ , while huddled around his newest unfinished invention.

  


“I promise I won’t use this Plot Device Unit to do anything heinous or bad! I’m just Making Science! Please don’t scrap me!”

  


“I don’t need to scrap you, _genius_ ; you already do it yourself on a regular basis. Now; my centrifuge.”

  


He outstretched his palm up; Wheeljack blinked his side face panels.

  


“But I don’t have it.”

  


* * *

  


 

“I don’t have it...”

  


Swindle circled looking up at his fellow combaticon Vortex, smirking.

  


“…but for the right price I could.”

  


Swindle could already see the _Shanix_ bubbling into his subspace pockets, thinking about his colleague’s request. Vortex had heard about a not-so-secret project of Shockwave called _cortical psychic path_ that might be able to improve greatly his interrogation techniques.

  


He _revved_ his engines at the prospect of being able to invade and hack in a brave new way another bot: sure he had evolved the art of using his own modded _spike_ both as means of torture and as hacking datacord, but certainly any improvement would be mighty welcome.

  


“You know how _flexible_ I can _bend_ in my negotiations. Just no stealing my rotor blades afterwards!”

  


Swindle raised both hands in self-defence: as if he had tried selling them more than that _once_!

  


“How can you think so low on Swindle! I have no personal interest in fragging the living circuits of you, but I know mechs who would _pay_ me handsomely to get full access to your frame. The perks of fragging the _fragger_ , if you understand me!”

  


Vortex did. Being _pimped_ by Swindle wasn’t the worse task he had ever undergone, besides, some mechs were particularly _rude_ with _shareware_ , and Vortex absolutely enjoyed the humiliation.

  


He was certainly _game_.

 

* * *

 

  


“I’m certainly game!”

  


Skywarp giggled as Scavenger clapped hands: both had just agreed to a game of _tag._ A teleporter against the tunnel-digger inside the undersea base.

  


For some reason neither could see anything wrong with that. The only thing preventing them of starting Hell now was Scavenger’s sense of duty.

  


“Just not now. I’m on guard duty!”

  


He nodded, meaningfully, recalling that his favourite Commander, Shockwave, was also assigned guard duty and felt truly honoured by the similarity of function. Skywarp sagged. Scavenger patted him on his head.

  


“ _Later_.”

  


He hugged the purple seeker, as Mixmaster, on the background, _stared_ , vigilant, approvingly; Scavenger was a hug addict, needing to help himself at all and every _love_ he could get.

 

* * *

 

  


Getting all the _help_ he could need, _loving_ everything, Ratchet left the Lab parting the crowd with his grumbles.

  


After having tried to no avail to reach _his fellow medic_ via comms, Ratchet ended up stood still before Strongarm’s door, arms folded, tapping his feet on the ground.

  


_To come in or not to come?_

  


Recalling how disregarding of privacy the heliformer was, Ratchet shrugged and keyed in his _medical emergency_ override code on the door, entering it, a security camera recording his steps.

  


* * *

 

  


The security camera recorded Ratchet’s steps as Red Alert nearly ate his own fingertips in anxiety.

  


_Primus they had exchanged door codes!_

  


From his perspective Red Alert couldn’t know Ratchet had keyed the _override_ , not that it made a difference: his paranoid self was already imagining the most horrendous plots and subplots.

  


He knew it. A pity he couldn’t call _Prowl_ anymore for these _voyeur times_ : the SIC decided to no longer allow his personal comms available to the Security Director after his _Epic Failure number_ 194.744.

  


At least _Inferno_ was around to cheer him up.

  


* * *

  


 

“Cheer up!”

  


Firestar came by to the berthroom-bound Nautica, currently her guest, I mean, _prisoner_ at the _Female Autobot Headquarters_ , carrying a huge energon cube.

  


She pondered on Megatron being considered the _villain_ when clearly he _had_ been sending _energon_ home, even when things were meagre to the Decepticons, to his Guardian, showing sense of responsibility, while Optimus never sends a single ounce of anything, no matter the _obscene_ abundance of energy the autobots can access at the _volcanic_ grounds where the Ark is.

  


The excuse of the autobots not owning the spacebridge _isn’t_ enough: everyone knew where the fragging spacebridge was and how to pass right through under the proverbial nose of the _cyclopic_ _drone_.

  


She snorted, swirling the cube before Nautica, who refused to look at it.

  


Megatron sharing _poverty_ and Optimus wallowing in abundance: It didn’t bid well to the processors to think about the _irony_ of it. Perhaps Soundwave had a good reason to stick by his leader and mate for so long and still keep producing _cassetticons_ together. To all effects the Slagmaker looked like to be an invested _provider_ and _sire_.

  


Bad thoughts, Firestar: no turning con-sympathiser in the middle of war, she nodded to the cube.

  


“Nautica, dearest. Have a taste of Megatron’s energy, stolen by them and now by us.”

  


“I’m not hungry.”

  


The rumbling of empty tanks bellowed from her systems, as Firestar snorted.

  


“Not even If I _fuel_ you slowly?” she waggled her optic ridges.

  


_Inconvenient_ doesn’t begin to cover what she currently thought on her lovely _amica_ , thought Nautica as she rolled tired optics across the room.

 

* * *

 

  


Rolling tired optics across the room, Ratchet winced as he contemplated the still form, prone over the berth.

  


Strongarm was on straight his back, hands locked over the white abdominal plates right underneath the protruding cockpit, only the distinct lack of greying bringing the certainty that he wasn’t currently looking at a _corpse._

  


“Strongarm!”

  


No reaction: Ratchet sighed, only now noticing the insistent rattle of a certain _disappeared_ centrifuge coming from over the desk.

  


Jolting his optics to it, observing it spin helplessly with its trays empty in a terrifying _rattle_ , he distantly recalled Strongarm never insisted again, since the night of the datapads, in recharging in his room, connecting the _dots_ , as in a mix of disbelief and anger at seeing he had been _replaced_ , he felt the energon bubble up his systems.

  


* * *

  


Systems bubbling up in cold energon, Elita-1 paced on her private berthroom.

  


She knew from the start that her bond with Optimus would be _arranged._ She had undergone a very _thorough_ secret selection among the female autobots for the Priestdom to choose the perfect acceptable mate for an _unchaste_ Prime who had – _blasphemy_ – lost his seals.

  


She recalled having been briefed on _The Matrix_ , an ancient bodyless _spark_ that legend said had belonged to _Solus Prime_ , and who currently managed _her_ survival by sharing the shell and leeching on every single Prime that came to house her.

  


Being a creation goddess, the Crafter, the Weapon Master, she often showered the host with great bodily improvement and power. No Prime ever spoke on the _details_ , but it was well-known that after receiving the Matrix most of them changed dramatically, many going introspective, other just plain angry and murderous, and some, resigned, self-sacrificing, righteous and even slightly _bitter_ on their fate.

  


Now, this fierce, relentless, capricious _goddess_ decided she wants a _newspark_ in the Prime’s future, and Elita-1 most definitely _does-not-want_.

  


Trying to argue logically didn’t work: not even mentioning the irresponsibility of getting sparked during the _War_ softened the Prime’s will.

  


And she, Elita-1, was supposed to graciously _house_ the _bitlet_ until maturity.

  


How was she coming out of this _mess_?

  


* * *

 

  


Shockwave came out of recharge in a _mess,_ mind fogged, taking a shameful amount of time to understand what was happening.

  


Before he could voice his conflict, however, he was being pulled towards the door and through the hall, right into another door, finally getting locked in and unceremoniously made to sit into a standard sized berth.

  


Moving his visor slowly, he finally took sight of the room, recognising it.

  


“You are aware I could have been properly _summoned_ , as part of your medical staff, Chief Medical Officer.”

  


Ratchet _growled_ : that was precisely what he had been trying to do before. Angry, he pointed to the centrifuge he had brought as well.

  


“Why?”

  


Shockwave stared, unblinking, then finally nodded, unsubspacing the same datapad he previously handed to First Aid, intent in explaining the benefits of _white noise_ into recharge.

  


Ratchet caught it, smacking it once across the heliformer’s chevron: Shockwave offlined his visor for a full second before turning it on.

  


“The reason _why_ is in the datapad. It would be wise not to destroy it. It is a very _through_ revolutionary project, Chief Medical Officer. You should be proud of having _inspired_ it. It may aid countless bots like me who suffer from chronic insomnia.”

  


“I don’t want you droning your scientific projects! What I want to ask is, _why_ resorting to the centrifuge instead of just plain _asking_ me or just invading this very room like you did first!”

  


Shockwave stared unblinkingly as his gears processed the info. Ratchet folded arms.

  


“I’m waiting, _Junior_ Medical Officer.”

  


Finally Shockwave found a logical explanation and dipped his head down, monotoning.

  


“I was not aware me coming to your room to recharge was a properly acceptable option anymore: I clearly recall you ordering me _out and away_ with my pile of datapads before you ripped out my double medical processors and turned me into a toaster, the day after I came for your white-noise filled recharging presence. Logically I presumed my company was not welcome. I am _fascinated_ to find it is not.”

  


The grumpy CMO couldn’t help a pang of _guilt_ then, going very mute, then shaking his head.

  


“Fine. You win! You can recharge around here, but I _forbid_ you of bringing a single datapad! That _storage closet_ that The Prime deemed to hand you as quarters can even be kept as _personal archive_ if you prefer! Now, return this centrifuge where it belongs and _move_ the only decent thing you own there, the berth, into _my_ room, because I’m _not_ sharing mine anymore. Do you copy?”

  


Shockwave blinked, otherwise expressionless. The CMO’s quarters were a vast improvement in space not to mention it accesses a private washrack, besides, he could certainly use his _room_ both to keep his files and maybe even a few _side experiments_ as a small makeshift lab.

  


“Unless you prefer that old _spare catre_ or the ground to recharge on.”

  


Suddenly the thought of being physically bound by his own tow chain into the feet of Ratchet’s berth, humbly sitting on his own pedes on the ground under the dim lights, looking at the scowling white mech, invaded his processors and Shockwave finally blinked the mental image away, not a single stir going through his frame, despite the minute activation and instant override of his interfacing protocols.

  


“I shall retrieve my berth, Chief Medical Officer, and make room for my future _library_ of datapads. It is very kind of you to suggest I store them together. I will return shortly.”

  


With a slight bow, _Strongarm_ stood up and turned to go, as Ratchet glared at the slowly rotating paddles, facepalming and asking himself what the frag had he just _done._

  


* * *

 

  


_What the frag had you just done?_

  


Red Alert held his head between both hands, unable to stop looking at the looped video onscreen.

  


Having just witnessed Ratchet drag a paddles-less Strongarm out of his room and into the CMO’s own, then having watched the rotary mech come out taking what looked like a centrifuge out, then shortly after, return hauling with the tow-chain already in helicopter mode his own berth back into Ratchet’s berthroom, Red Alert decided it was too much for him to keep bottling up alone.

  


Since Prowl still refused to talk to him, he decided moving up the Hierarchic Chain.

  


As such, resolute, he stormed into Optimus’ office, talking faster than _Blurr_ and making less sense than Starscream glitching about Megatron’s failed leadership skills, gesticulating wildly, the Prime staring very mute and immobile at him from behind his pile of datapads and the ornamental Matrix-shaped paperweight on his desk.

  


“Red Alert. Let’s try it again. But this time, slowly.”

  


* * *

 

  


“Slowly.”

  


Scrapper guided Hook, in crane mode, to place a column upright in the middle of their bay, gesticulating as Longhaul helped steer it along, until it rested standing up like a pole: the ceiling needed extra support, for a few original columns seemed to have been taken out of position without much care to the weight distribution of the room, to give place to the upper cloister lift (which they insisted they had no idea Shockwave upgraded).

  


As much as he tried, Scrapper couldn’t find where the frag he put the original plans of the Nemesis. He was positive the lift to the outside world couldn’t reach any taller than the last floor, and certainly without any hatch to open up.

  


He actually tried asking _Shockwave_ for information, but the cyclopic _drone_ ignored them and mechanically kept saying he only answered orders from Lord Megatron, and who were _they_ to muster the courage to ask the _Slagmaker_ himself on any sort of clarification about his own _mate?_

  


As such, all left for the constructicons was repairwork: since they had converted the sunken Nemesis into undersea base, adapting motors to gather electricity from the motion of the tides, they managed a tiny surplus of energon, reducing their needs for too frequent raids, diminishing their exposure to the autobots and the humans.

  


Nodding his architectural approval at the new placement of columns, he stole a glance towards the bay door, through where Swindle just came by, cornering Scavenger, very much willing to talk.

  


* * *

 

  


Cornered, unwilling to talk, Ironhide sulked with his energon cup at the Rec Room, having been left to _think_ after Blaster admitted he had no idea on who sired Ramhorn.

  


To add insult to injury, Blaster communicated him he had gotten in contact with a Lawyercon in Cybertron: Ramhorn notwithstanding, they had _three_ creations in common that had never seen a single _shanix_ of _cassette support_ during all those millions of years of neglect.

  


Ironhide was left blinking stupidly, unbelieving the tapedeck’s _cold_ spark: as far as he understood, he was the one that should be willing to _sue_ Blaster on account of having been _betrayed_!

  


…ok, perhaps the fact they had never officially _bonded_ on any level does make his claims of _being_ betrayed invalid, afterall, he had no official spark claim on Blaster.

  


He couldn’t even claim to have been forced into siring behaviour, since Blaster never explicitly told him he had or not sired Ramhorn or either of the cassettibots.

  


Truly, he just presumed so. Especially the gun-crazy little _rhino_.

  


He supposed he should have seen it coming, an impending lawsuit from which he has no means of getting out, much less the shanix to pay anything through. As far as he recalled, since before they fled Cybertron, bankruptcy had hit hard and ever since they awoke in this planet Earth they had never even been _paid_.

  


Ironhide snorted, shaking his head: he should have been _mad_ at his former partner, but found out he wasn’t even _disappointed_. He was just numb. How come the cassette he actually _liked_ the most was not his? Who was the sick fragger who engendered this _plot_?

  


Why had Primus to be so mean?

  


It had to be a ruse. Blaster was probably only messing up with his head. No one could be that sparkless and shanix-prone.

  


* * *

 

  


Sparkless and shanix-prone, Swindle smiled his best salesmech smirk, as Scavenger made his most apologetic headshake.

  


“But certainly you know which materials go into Shockwave’s _cortical psychic patch_. Everyone knows you went after the materials in Cybertron at his request.”

  


Scavenger did, and was damn proud about it. Shockwave praised him immensely after he searched and delivered the gems and trace minerals required for the creation of that purple cable hacker thingy. He didn’t have the _plans_ on how to build the thing, though.

  


Not that a list of materials could be enough: Swindle was aware that without the right chemical reactions and placement of elements, you could either wind up with a cortical psychic pacth or a squeaky duck toy, and he was very much intent in getting it _right_.

  


“Scavy. Swindle has a sweet deal. Swindle needs that cable. If you could just hand me the plans or retrieve me the cable. Imagine the _shanix_ we could make.”

  


Scavenger gave him a side glance, with no intention in giving in. He wasn’t the brightest bulb, but even he could smell this level of _deception_ , and if there was a commander Scavenger _respected_ , (Megatron he _revered_ , Starscream he blatantly _ignored_ , but Soundwave he just plain _feared_ ), was Shockwave.

  


“I refuse to _steal_ from Commander Shockwave.”

  


Damn stubborn constructicon: he needed the cable so Swindle could finally _pimp_ Vortex!

  


Hmmmm.

  


Talking on pimping Vortex.

  


“Scavy, my mech. If you don’t want _shanix_ I could always _lend_ you Vortex. For a price. But I give a discount! Just everything for my best customer.”

  


He winked, flashing a smile; Before Scavenger could reply further, Swindle was vigorously snatched from the ground, lifted up by a very ill-mooded Scrapper.

  


“Scrappy! How much I miss my _best_ customer! Interested in _renting_ Vortex? I have already had _offers._ ”

  


Scrapper growled: Swindle couldn’t supress a full-body-shiver as that huge fist closed in, _smashing_.

  


* * *

 

  


Smashing his fist once in his desk, Optimus hid his scowl behind the battlemask, as Red Alert widened his optics and fidgeted with his hands.

  


“Did I frag royally again by telling you, Prime? I tried being discreet and coming only for you.”

  


Optimus sighed.

  


“No, Red Alert, you have done well. Our CMO’s behaviour is worrisome indeed, not to mention Strongarm’s disregard with the room I had granted him.”

  


“What do we do now, Prime?”

  


Optimus fiddled idly with the Matrix-shaped paperweight, holding it up in a Shakespeare-like manner, knowing a lost battle when he saw one, and spoke doing his best not to sound too bitter or angry.

  


“Looks like we can’t avoid the outcome, whatever it is. Primus knows I tried. We might prepare for the fallout. Please tell Elita-1 I will be holed up in my office for the next days and will not be able to meet her any soon, for her not to worry about my _security_.”

  


Nodding vigorously, Red Alert saluted and turned on his heels, finials glowing as he left the room.

  


Since Optimus couldn’t prevent what was doomed to happen between the two medics, he might as well take time to muse on his own little _demand_ from the Matrix herself.

  


The Matrix was a harsh _mistress_ ; kind and powerful, but slightly _mad_ and hated being told _no_ – the exact faceplates of _Solus Prime_. Optimus was a well-mannered Prime: every time he rebelled in the past he got _firmly warned_ not to steer away from his _path_ , usually through endless _lecturing_ that he found out more _effective_ than any sort of physical punishment.

  


He would have to give in and comply soon, before the Matrix decided to just plain grant him _carrierhood_.

  


There were other times he would have gladly gone this route, voluntarily, partnered with a certain _medic_ , but the world was very different now and by taking the Primedom and royally fragging up all chances with the CMO, his personal choices and preferences don’t really matter anymore. Not that he could go back in time anyway. This road was permanently blocked now and he knew it.

  


Not to mention he _knew_ it would be impossible to carry Elita-1’s newspark without her acting unbearably _smug_ ; her _I knew it_ face would speak volumes, not to mention that getting _sparked_ , he wouldn’t be able to actively fight against the Decepticons for centuries to come.

  


Basically, it would skew the War against the autobots to have the _Prime_ sparked now. Elita-1 was the Priestdom’s choice, to allow for a compatible lineage without endangering the faction. At the beginning he thought he might never come to enjoy being bonded to her, but turns out she is indeed more like him than he ever thought. Nowadays, millennia later, he might even say he _loved_ her, in a possessive love-to-hate-you way.

 

To be honest all he really missed, millions of years later, was getting _fragged_ hard against the slab, ops, the berth: Elita lacked the necessary _equipment_ for that.

  


As such, for a small while he _envied_ Soundwave. He wasn’t a _Prime_ target, he had total _support_ from the Decepticon Leader, could literally do his work from behind and beneath every curtains and stages without ever coming out and exposing himself or the newspark∕newsparks at the field during carriage, if he wanted, and had the benefit of keeping all his creations controlled under juvenile frames, like Blaster did.

  


The perks of being a carrier-host.

  


Feeling sleepy and glaring down his chest and lightly grazing his fingers on it, he felt the humm of the whimsical _Matrix_ , hearing it pulse content at his decision to go on with the plan and actively _wish_ for a newspark, instead of stubbornly resisting.

  


Who knows. Optimus might be _surprised_. A little _emotional_ manipulation might have its time and place and it could be now. Maybe with a little distance of his part, Elita-1 would be _intrigued._

  


* * *

 

  


_Intriguing_.

  


Shockwave that night cycle stared immobile at the recharging CMO, in between scientifically curious and clearly bothered.

  


Instead of diving into recharge as soon as the lulling rattle hit his audials, he found himself awoken by the uncomfortable wobble of Ratchet’s EM-field as he minutely struggled against what had to be a bad recharge flux.

  


Concluding the oscillating engine rattle added to the flickering field were not conductive to his recharge, Shockwave stood up from his own berth and walked towards the tossing medic.

  


“Chief Medical Officer. You are not being conductive to my recharge.”

  


Ratchet whined locked in his flux. Shockwave stared. Every other time it happened he had not been _starved_ of proper recharge and thus merely shrugged the CMO’s flux and went to devise projects and plans.

  


Now, being clearly in need of a decent recharge, it was only logical that Shockwave would intervene. He poked once the CMO, droning further.

  


“I require you change your frequency according to the _one_ I have previously charted whose _p_ is less than 0.001. Presuming you have read my datapad, you must know exactly what frequency I mean. I am waiting.”

  


Ratchet turned and tossed.

  


Looking up and nearly _sighing_ , the heliformer opened up his own purple lateral medical port, unspooled his _cortical_ _psychic_ _path_ , visually scooped Ratchet’s frame, loaded from his own systems the Prime’s files on Ratchet’s locks and manual overrides from the times they had been in a relationship, and extrapolating information, nodded to himself, transforming his right index into a thin long needle, digging it through the lateral lower left hip and overriding the lock to his medical port, _plunging_ his hacking cable in.

  


HUD narrowing to a single tunnel of light, Shockwave strode through his _cortical psychic path_ into the recesses of the medic’s mind, searching for the struggling self of the CMO.

  


Finally following through the Hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon, he stopped walking as soon as he spotted what clearly looked like the newly _selected_ Prime getting engulfed by the beam of light come from no one less than _The Matrix_.

  


Logically realising no one knew he was there as witness, being it a memory file he had no necessity of hacking through and altering, Shockwave, in his _Strongarm_ self, walked close to the dais as the crowd remained still and the _light_ left the Prime, spreading in all directions and blinding the audience.

  


Setting his visor on the much younger features of a certain civilian _medic_ , way less scratched and battered with use and abuse over the millions of years, he took note of the pained expression as he tried communicating to the Prime, to no avail.

  


Optimus, former _Orion_ , had just called to the dais his official intended and future _sparkmate_ , Elita-1, who walked _smugly_ to his side giving Ratchet a single _glare,_ as the medic’s optics darted between her and his former _partner_ , and right there, without a single glance to his previous intended, the Prime said the pre-ordained bonding phrasing, opened his chestplates to her and both publicly _sparkmerged and sparkbonded right then and there_ , as demanded tradition.

  


Protecting his visor from the light, Shockwave couldn’t help noticing how the CMO clearly aborted a _wrench-throwing-motion_ , after grumbling and staring between the dozen guards stationed in a row at each side of the dais.

  


An idea suddenly forming in mind, Shockwave took one last look at the young projection of the CMO and made sure to drift him into a forced crash-down.

 

* * *

 

  


Drifting down, forced into his own crash, Swindle got repeatedly punched by Scrapper, remembering a valuable lesson: one doesn’t try _negotiating_ with a gestaltmate without involving the whole gestalt.

  


As such, in the middle of getting _scrapped_ , Swindle managed to screech that _yes, he would extend Vortex’ services to every constructicon and hell, even Devastator himself if only they would help him get the materials for a replica of Shockwave’s cortical psychic path_.

  


Gricketbugs cricketed on the background as every other constructicon not previously around came by, giving him a _glare_.

 

* * *

 

  


Giving him a _glare_ , Starscream came to his leader with a request.

  


“What are you implying, Starscream? That I am not enough a good _leader_?”

  


“I am not implying anything, _my great leader_. Our energon reserves are going low slowly and we will need a raid soon. It’s certainly not my fault we have a _sparked_ Soundwave consuming more than our meagre tidal wave collectors can provide. Not to mention _you_ might even send some extra back to your other _housebound_ mate back on Cybertron as well. Keeping a family is costly.”

  


Starscream almost didn’t avoid getting shot as Megatron’s fusion cannon zimmed right beside his face. He merely shrugged the _threat_ off and continued.

  


“ _Lord_ Megatron, allow me and my trine to fill the upper lift’s outer surface with solar collectors, and grant me access to a decent lab where I could borrow _Ratbat_ as aide into developing more efficient forms of storing energy. We should use our tactical advantage of being hidden underwater to gather energy in secrecy.”

  


“You mean like _cowards_ , just as it befits you, right, Starscream? We decepticons do not hide, we conquer! Now get out of my sight, you waste of energon and space!!!”

  


Starscream huffed and stomped out of the room, outraged: he was sure he and Thundercracker could safely produce one by one the solar collectors and Skywarp would gladly VOP around the ship to place them where the sun shines.

  


If the stupid fool doesn’t want free, effortless _energy_ delivered right into his own doorstep, Starscream most certainly does.

  


Who knows. Once the cubes were getting filled, maybe the decepticons will see how great a leader Starscream was and might even be willing to _help._

  


* * *

 

  


“Are you willing to help?”

  


Wheeljack looked down at the curious cassettibot, who nodded. The engineer scratched his head, side panels glowing as he spoke.

  


“But what are your skills? The Lab is not a place for destructive behaviour.”

  


The cassettibot squinted, a huge sign saying _“23 days without Wheeljack exploding the Lab”_ visible on the wall behind. Wheeljack cleared his vocalisers.

  


“Fine, fine. Skills can be learned, you don’t need any to start. I can take you under my wing. Rule number one though: if anyone else but me dukes, _duke_.”

  


Ramhorn blinked, then nodded: it looked like an easy enough rule. Wheeljack continued, as he caught his Plot Device Unit from a shelf, placing it on his desk.

  


“So, do your creators approve you being here?”

  


Ramhorn nodded: Blaster looked a bit distraught and merely waved him out with a noncommittal grunt, as Ironhide _glared_ at him for three full seconds then stormed away, _crying_.

  


“It’s great then! Some minor _frame_ adaptations and you’ll be ready to begin! Ever heard of opposable thumbs?”

  


The little rhino glared down at his paws, then up at Wheeljack’s hands. He didn’t want to desecrate his cassette-mode or his rhino mode, but he would take on any upgrades that didn’t hinder his docking abilities to his carrier.

  


“Oh, don’t worry on the details, I will sit with Perceptor and we will come out with some way to have you scientifically-able. It’s not every day we get a brand new helper whose mind is _clear_ enough for us to begin teaching from scrap!”

  


Glad for seeing Wheeljack considered his total lack of formal study an advantage and taking a quick peek at the multi-coloured test tubes and glassware, he rightfully felt like a _rhino_ in a china shop; it looked and smelled like a challenge to be there, and _Ramhorn_ was sturdy enough to face one.

  


Maybe he might even turn into a researcher one day: he could already see himself in a distant alien planet, gleefully being part of an exploration crew, a truckload of experiments and pods on cargo hold and obviously, a pair of _chainguns_ in tow.

  


Life certainly looked to be smiling on him now.


	8. Can you feel the love tonight?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave finally comes close to his objective.

Life certainly looked like _snorting_ on him now.

  


Transforming to root mode and walking behind a much scrapped _Swindle_ , the desperate heliformer fidgeted.

  


“But what about our deal?”

  


Swindle, dragging himself and his insides in arms, stopped, turning to face Vortex.

  


“Vorty. Remember when Swindle says he can get anything for a price?”

  


Vortex nodded.

  


“Looks like _this time_ you’ll have to _pimp yourself_ and get Shockwave’s hacking cable alone! I don’t want to hear about Scavenger, minerals, constructicons and even _hacking_ anytime soon! I’m done!”

  


Holding his innards closer and puffing up, he abandoned the outraged and angered heliformer on the lower corridors of the underwater base.

  


Sometimes, some things just are _not_ worth it.

 

 

* * *

 

  


“Is it worth _it_?”

  


Perceptor inspected the datapad, reading “RAMHORN”, as Wheeljack nodded.

  


“This project will take years. He will need proper hands and bipedalism to be able to _Make Science_ , but he must keep his rhino mode and his cassette mode, and his abilities with weapons. Despite the rumours on his stupidity, I have analysed his processors and he’s actually pretty smart; most certainly being bound to a beastformer mode stunted his intellectual growth. It’s our duty as mechs of Science to help!”

  


Perceptor glared at him, cleaning his monocle.

  


“Fine. I shall seize this whole situation to conjure up a proper Thesis and help in any way I can. Do you happen to have any information on Blitzwing and Astrotrain?”

  


Wheeljack shook his head: triplechanging abilities were not common, and he was positive it had something to do with being an outlier, or even a subject at Shockwave’s hand.

  


“The female autobots could get into the purple fool’s Tower to try to gather the plans on Project Triplechanger.”

  


Perceptor shook his head.

  


“The Project’s plans might have been altered. I would rather have the info fresh from the working source, preferably downloaded from either of their systems. Of those two, Astrotrain might be an easier source: it’s rumoured he truly has bad optics and owns auxiliary binoculars to see from a distance, often navigating by instruments, and it might be easier to catch him _blind_. Not to mention he is not _insane_ like Blitzwing with his split personality.”

  


Wheeljack nodded, pensive.

  


“Astrotrain it is then. Let this part with me: I fear you aren’t exactly in speaking terms with Skyfire anymore.”

  


Perceptor grimaced: that _vosian_ cargo shuttle who thinks he is a scientist, Skyfire, had been a pain in the aft recently and certainly Wheeljack would have a better chance of convincing him.

  


Nodding noncommittally, Perceptor turned to a pile of datapads to begin brainstorming as Wheeljack’s side panels glowed and the _mad_ scientist wriggled his fingers over the console, hitting his comms on.

  


* * *

 

  


Hitting his comms off, Shockwave wandered on the corridors: he had just left the properly crashed down CMO in his own room, pondering deeply on the memory sequence he had just witnessed.

  


It’s not every day you can access such a magnificent _memory_ , a _real_ memory, where the Prime opened his chestplates, leaving the Matrix _vulnerable_ and exposed, and Shockwave was certain he could manipulate that to his best interest.

  


All he needed was to stablish a hardline connection via _cortical psychic patch_ to the Prime, and the quickest way to do it would be to disguise himself as his _faithful_ sparkmate, Elita-1.

  


Recalling how the autobots owned pretender and holomatter technology, Shockwave knew where he had to head next, turning on his heels to unceremoniously enter the Lab.

  


Taking sight of Wheeljack involved in a heated discussion with an apparently stubborn interlocutor, his side panels glowing and flashing intensely as he ignored his surroundings, Shockwave shifted his glare to Perceptor, currently huddled over a pile of datapads, working.

  


Resisting the _urge_ to snatch the datapads from him and taking over the project, whichever it was, the heliformer stared around the Lab, soon finding what he came for, unceremoniously walking to the shelves and taking hold of one holomatter cube.

  


Plugging his purple cable into the swirling cube, he blinked his visor off and on, HUD split into twin screens, both from his systems where the frame data from the Prime’s mate was located, and the cube’s stored programming.

  


Quickly uploading Elita-1’s physical appearance data into the cube’s simulator, Shockwave nodded, subspacing the cube and activating the disguise, his outer shell morphing to the pink plates of the Prime’s consort.

  


Giving a brief once-over to himself approvingly, Shockwave shifted his spark-frequency to match hers, turned on his heels cocking his head up with a blank holoformed facial expression, and swaying hips right and left, left the Lab and the two completely oblivious scientists behind.

  


As he walked regally across the corridors and got greeted enthusiastically by every single autobot on his way, Shockwave couldn’t help the mental image of himself knelt down to his Lord’s feet, his own chestplates open wide offering him the _Matrix_ , Megatron’s open _smirk_ of Victory filling his sight, the _expectation_ of returning to the fold in full honours hitting him hard and triggering the _inappropriate_ tell-tale warmth of pre-interfacing protocols.

  


Minutely shuddering as he opened the Prime’s Office door and peeked inside, expecting to need to resort himself to using Elita’s _appeal_ to make the Prime open his chest, surprisingly, he found Optimus soundly recharging over a pile of datapads in his desk.

  


Suppressing the _heated_ reactions with a command, now he wouldn’t need to _fake_ any interest anymore, and checking on his own energon levels, Shockwave concluded he would have energy for one more _infiltration_ still before requiring refuelling.

  


Bringing up into his systems the memory of the _Ceremonial_ _Sparkbonding_ , Shockwave, observing the door like a mad stalker and keeping out of camera range for now, reviewed the Prime’s medical files and recalled where the autobot’s medical port was, nodding to himself under his mask.

  


It would be now or never, and he was _ready._

 

 

* * *

 

  


“Are you _ready_?”

  


Red Alert jumped of his seat, currently obsessively watching over the camera within Optimus’ office: his leader had been overworking himself and managed to fall under recharge atop a pile of datapads sitting at his desk; Holding his hand before his chestplates, he turned on his back.

  


“Inferno! I’m working! It’s _not_ a good time!”

  


Inferno folded arms, taking a peek at the peacefully recharging Prime on the screen.

  


“It’s never a good enough time for you. You never leave that fragging Security Room. You leave me no choice but to come by.”

  


Red Alert huffed: not his fault he was responsible and he was surrounded by slackers: he had to keep his optics on Optimus: what if someone came by to _murder_ him in his sleep?

  


Inferno, sighing, all grabby-handed, unceremoniously spun Red Alert’s chair and lifted his chin up, enveloping him in a spark-melting kiss that made the neurotic mech’s lights glow in tandem with the pulse of his spark.

  


“But my duty.” he spoke mid-kiss, lips brushing against Inferno’s “I’m not _done_!”

  


Inferno _growled_ Red Alert into silence, lowering his mouth to ravage on his neck cables now: he was tired of whining.

  


Red Alert gaped and instantly let out an undignified moan as Inferno trailed his mouth down over his chassis and abdominal plates, planting a series of kisses, light nips, trailing his tongue in between transformation seams, the security director becoming a blubbering mess, electricity arching between his head finials.

  


Suddenly lifting the protesting mech up, kicking the chair aside and planting Red Alert’s aft on the panel, hitting a series of random buttons, right before the camera view on Optimus Prime’s office, Inferno _smirked_.

  


Fitting between the widespread thighs, locking his _c_ _onjunx_ between himself and the console and pushing against his panels, Inferno stared right into Red’s optics, giving him one single order as he wormed his hand over the interface hatch, palming it firmly with his good hand.

  


“Open. _Now_.”

  


Offlining his optics at the _tone_ , Red Alert relaxed, mouth betting plunged by an eager tongue, interfacing protocols kicking in full force and panels sliding.

  


Perhaps just this once he could let _go_.

  


* * *

  


 

He could let _go_.

  


He should.

  


What was preventing him anyway?

  


Oh, yes. He was in the Rec Room, and despite enjoying to an extent being gaped upon and being envied by the fleet, he wasn’t a fan of pursuing public overloads.

  


Glad for having a battlemask and not displaying a single flicker of his conflict, Soundwave slowly ingested his cube by his conveniently placed chin intake, in the middle of the room, his _sparked_ EM-field spread wide _invitingly_ as the decepticons sat in a _circle_ away from him, actively trying to escape Megatron’s wrath should he come by and find anyone too _close._

  


He most definitely wasn’t getting _closeness_ enough from his Lord, and this time Shockwave wasn’t around to fill in the gaps.

  


He briefly wondered about requesting a Spacebridge to get there and order the cyclopic guardian to let himself be fragged senseless into sparkmerge, but soon changed his mind: the growing newspark had a strange preference for looping in eights around his spark and sending definite buzzes up his processors, keeping Soundwave often dizzy and unable to walk for long, and the last thing the TIC needed was for the fleet to see how affected he was this time.

  


Let them think he was about to forcibly _face_ the first mech who came too close, even if he wasn’t: it never bode well to show vulnerability among the decepticons, especially when you were a firm believer in consensual interfacing.

  


As such, the very frustrated Soundwave decided keeping his cool and tasting his energon right before the dispenser, preventing everyone of refuelling as well.

  


Options, options, he mused, _knowing_ very well where Lord Megatron was _hiding_.

  


* * *

 

  


Lord Megatron was hiding.

  


He could be hiding in his own room and offices, but he was currently occupying the Nemesis’ last storage room with a window to the outside, at the lowest level, feet half-sunk in brine water, preferring to witness the barnacles and the crabs crawl the outer hull rather than face the though reality of his World.

  


No matter he had just recently told Starscream Decepticons don’t hide, they conquer: in this particular issue, decepticons _did_ hide.

  


Especially from a demanding, sparked, moody Soundwave, they did.

  


Much to his dismay, Soundwave was undergoing that awful phase where the carrier requires frequent spark-energy to develop the newspark, and it often lasts years long.

  


Megatron, having been a slave before becoming a gladiator, had been permanently _altered_ to never carry a spark by his first owner, who wanted to be able to rent and lend him at will without the responsibility of a sparked slave: his sparkchamber was dented, pierced, irregularly smashed at points and barbed in the inside, making it impossible for any potential newspark to survive its first spins.

  


He didn’t want to dwell on the thought of how many potential newsparks he might have conceived and lost because of it. Better to never know.

  


Instead, he focused earnestly on his memories of the first gladiator that almost _and_ literally had won him over.

  


Soundwave, battlemasked, blocky, dark blue, datacables flailing from his back with glowing biolights, proved to be a challenging match, nearly offlining the gunformer.

  


The Arena might have had a new champion weren’t for a single _slip_ from the tapedeck.

  


Soundwave might have been fast, but Megatron was stronger and in the context of things, the tapedeck ended up sprawled on his back at the ground, damaged datacables spitting static, chestplates cracked, the blue spark light peering out.

  


Megatron recalled how Soundwave expected to be offlined, turning his own visor off and stoically, silently accepting his fate, baring his neck backwards and waiting for the final blow.

  


Taking sight of such a vulnerable position of someone so strong, Megatron this day refused to kill his opponent.

  


Sending the final non-fatal blow upon the tapedeck, he raised his arms at the spectators, receiving the honours as the stasis-locked albeit living opponent was removed from the field.

  


Not thinking much about it, he returned to his quarters that fateful night, finding a bound mech in the middle of the room: once a couple of gears rolled in his processors, he stalled: his minimally repaired opponent had just been offered for him to be taken.

  


He remembered his owner coming from the shadows of the room and telling him how he got the tapedeck’s _spark_ as offering: since he had been mercifully left alive, his spark belonged to him for the night.

  


His slavemaster – what was his name anyway? He swore he could not remember – was too _aristocratic_ to dwell among the peasantry, especially concerning a _gift_ ; he would never interface himself with a slave, not even a _virginal_ one who had never lost a battle before, but he could not refuse such offer, so he brought the bound and damaged slave in.

  


Soundwave had to be given back _used_ , so the solution was to order his slave to do it: that night, the tapedeck was left at Megatron’s mercy once again.

  


Shaking his head, Megatron smirked to himself: deeming the situation tasteless, his owner promised Megatron could enjoy his _prize_ and left them alone, informing he would be back in the morning to return the loser to his owner _Ratbat_.

  


Once Megatron freed his binds, he joined him down into his humbled position, bringing themselves to sit face to face, saying he was sorry they had to come to this, but he hoped they could reach an agreement to make sure their orders would be accomplished with minimal damage and hopefully no regrets, and maybe even some degree of satisfaction.

  


Megatron recalled fondly how Soundwave stared at him surprised, expecting to be just _raped_ in all docks and port, instead of being given the choice to attempt to enjoy it, immediately shifting his EM-field from a cold, dronelike stance, into a tentative brush and lick, trying to assert himself of the truth or deceit in the winner’s spark.

  


The instant Megatron joined their foreheads together and offlined his own optics in a gesture of goodwill and equality, Soundwave, so close to the merciful and attractive mech who left him _live_ , knowing his weakness for powerful mecha, fell helm over heels right then and there, and just plain offered himself of his own volition, spark and frame to the grey gladiator.

  


Suffice to say, the feeling of battlelust was more than mutual, and from the tame initial display of joined foreheads, they continued on exactly from where they left at the battleground, the tapedeck completely _taken_ with full consent on the very ground.

  


Ratbat certainly received a well- _used_ slave the next morning, all previously virginal ports – including the docks – having been fully claimed by Megatron.

  


The Senator was fully expecting his _charge_ to have been humiliated, damaged, violated and dejected. Silent and Stoic Soundwave wouldn’t show, but he had not only _enjoyed_ but also found an _equal_ and an _ally_ , thus sooner than later, _Ratbat_ himself had been betrayed, reframed, repurposed and reformatted as the _Symbol_ cassette.

  


Megatron smiled fondly recalling how his and Soundwave’s true S _parkbonding_ was finally sealed, like true gladiators, literally over the former _senator’s_ greyed corpse.

  


Blinking his memories to the present, Megatron observed a gigantic whale pass by with a supersonic wail, recalling how his _ravaging_ of Soundwave during their first true Bonded Sparkmerge resulted in the first _Creation_ , the homonymous newspark.

  


He had honestly never expected to be able to conceive in neither way, not even by siring: finding it was possible added a whole new layer to the revolution.

  


Soon his spare _energy_ was gone: Megatron doesn’t remember fondly the times where he had been the only mech _available_ to share spark-energy to help raise Ravage. The newspark had been a greedy little thing, and Megatron almost hated being constantly requested: it turned out to be more duty than pleasure, especially for him and his scarred sparkchamber.

  


Once Shockwave, the Empurata Autobot _reject_ , joined the cause and he noticed Soundwave’s long glances towards the purple _wonder_ , Megatron, not completely unaffected by the physical aspects of the scientist as well, knew the step he had to do next, and thus their trinebond was formed.

  


Shockwave, having been a middle to upper class autobot, had never needed to fear the future of a potential newspark, and thus came into the bond, despite Shadowplay and Ethe damage from Empurata, sporting an unsullied sparkchamber in mint condition, a visually sound nterface cable that no matter what Megatron did, always remained unresponsive and slotted into jack, and a clean, healthy port without visible damage or scratches albeit no longer virginal, and not a single installed anti-sparking protocol.

  


Megatron confessed he almost expected to discover his scientist sparked as well, from either of them, during the first million years, but since it never ever took place, he stopped believing it would happen, and instead, after the _Datapad_ _Fiasco_ when Shockwave communicated to the whole fleet he was giving up in getting sparked, the cyclops focused his efforts on Basekeeping, Science and keeping the bondmates _satisfied_ , especially the demanding and frequently sparked Soundwave.

  


Growling, Megatron recalled now how his esteemed _Shockwave_ (the purple drone) systematically ignored his requests to open a Spacebridge, hating that the spacebridge controls were on Cybertron and not on his own hands.

  


Since Shockwave was currently just plain _unavailable_ , it befell only to Megatron to keep the _sparked_ Soundwave in check, and it’s tiresome to attend to the whims of a sparked carrier: he wasn’t a _machine_ for Primus sake.

  


Not to mention his scarred sparkchamber sometimes just plain _hurts_ and it’s not every time sparkmerging is _fun_.

  


If Megatron weren’t so sure of Shockwave’s unwavering loyalty, he might even believe his _brilliant_ _scientist_ had been plotting something dreadful behind his back and he would be in for a _surprise_.

  


* * *

 

  


“Surprise!”

  


Prowl grabbed and threw his desk at the door, from where the recently arrived Jazz just duked.

  


“Jazz. Don’t ever do it again. I might have shot instead.”

  


He stared at the bent table, sighing, calculating how long it would take to get Grapple to make him a new one.

  


“Ya didn’t. It means ya lov’me, mech. Gimme a kiss.”

  


Prowl stiffened.

  


“No.”

  


“But ya know ya wannit.”

  


“No.”

  


“Ya do!”

  


Prowl slowly shook his head. He was on duty. He was always on duty. He didn’t have time to something frivolous like trying to take his platonic interest to become less platonic for a change.

  


Jazz sighed. What kind of Miracle did he need, which mechs did he need to bribe, just to make sure Prowl would simply flip out like he flipped his tables, and quickly, messily, _plunge in?_

  


* * *

 

  


Shockwave quickly and messily plunged in with his _cortical psychic patch_ into The Prime’s medical port.

  


Having finally reviewed the Prime’s override locks, he quickly freed the medical port: unlike with the CMO, this time he wasn’t leisurely strolling by: he had a mission that would require full hacking and messing up with memory files.

  


As soon as he broke the first firewall, he was hit by the Prime’s security system, trying to acknowledge his presence.

  


Were he just hacking for hacking, it would be the time he force crashed the drivers and made a full riot of all archives while force-downloading every needed file.

  


Since he needed to be seamless, careful and perfect, already pretending to be Elita-1, he patted himself in the rotors for a well-done choice the instant the Prime’s memory roads opened wide to his _bondmate_.

  


Walking by a slowly shaping corridor, Shockwave, flaring Elita’s spark frequency _and_ her virtual likeness as well, resolutely strolled by the Prime’s memories like a Queen.

  


Soon finding the exact memory sequence he intended to warp to his needs, he stepped into the Hallowed Halls, slowly walking to the dais, and placed himself before the Prime, taking a brief cold glare at the young civilian medic taking part of the crowd and shooting daggers at the Elita avatar, as Shockwave entered the role and _droned_ the standard phrasing.

  


“Optimus Prime. It is with great honour I am allowed to share my very spark with your Highness.”

  


Optimus nodded regally, without a single hint of _fire_. It was _duty_ , not pleasure.

  


So was Shockwave’s current role there, on a totally different level.

  


“As Matrix-assigned pair, we are to _sparkbond_ before our very witnesses. I welcome you into my spark, Elita-1.”

  


Shockwave fleeted a side glance at the young medic clearly aborting a wrench-throwing motion and shifting his optics between the dozen security guards, then dipped his head minutely towards the Prime, observing completely unfazed the red chestplates slide to the sides, whirring deafeningly in the silence of the Hall, the battlemasked Prime emitting a single command.

  


“ _Come_.”

  


* * *

 

  


“ _Come_.”

  


Red Alert shuddered and _glitched_ in overload at the hushed voice reaching his audials, faced senseless against the Security Panels, by now every single camera in the base messed up enough to randomly record walls, empty halls, rock formations, the lever of the energon dispenser…

  


…everything but the really important security matters, like the insides of the Prime’s Office.

  


Had Red Alert not slacked off and succumbed to the needs of the living _mesh_ , he might have been able to see first-hand the instant _Elita-1_ , previously eerily standing still besides the equally immobile _Prime,_ suddenly came out of paralysis.

  


* * *

 

  


Out of paralysis, Shockwave suddenly turned around _his_ axis and still _plugged in_ via the _cortical psychic patch_ , unceremoniously swept the desk clean, throwing all the datapads on the ground, the Matrix-shaped paperweight rolling out of sight as he yanked the poor chestplates-open _Prime_ from his chair into a laying position, on his back, over the desk.

  


Optimus Prime never knew where he was or what he might currently be doing: he had been hacked and his memory sequence conveniently _paused_ by Shockwave the instant the Prime opened his chestplates to invite Elita-1 in.

  


The disguised mech, holoformed into _Elita-1_ , focused on getting his act completely _right_ , logged away from the sequence at the precise moment, allowing himself out of the memory and back into the real world.

  


Still plugged via _cortical psychic patch_ , contemplating almost satisfied the blue glow of _The_ _Matrix_ underneath, Shockwave transformed his right index into an energon scalpel and briefly stared at the blue crystal swirling within its golden handles.

  


Blinking his HUD on, monitoring the vitals and focusing on keeping Optimus alive during the procedure, Shockwave brought up the Prime’s spark-frequency, EM-field, CNA conversion rate, level of fuel, coolant and oil, system processor efficiency, and even rate of trans-electrical fluid production.

  


In a no-nonsense move, unwilling to elaborate further on consequences, remembering when his Science Team carved the very hole his _prize_ fits in, Shockwave, still holoformed, activated his energon scalpel, intently glaring at the fused struts, _nodding_.

  


* * *

 

  


Nodding, Elita-1 contemplated her own reflection at the mirror, stepping regally inside the energon bath, soaking in.

  


She should be feeling guilty of being on Earth literally diving into energon, as her female troops were left behind on rations, but somehow she wasn’t: not her fault they had not be deemed compatible with The Prime.

  


She recalled how the Priestdom cogitated about the possibility of assigning the future unchaste Prime not one sole bondmate but a whole _harem_ , as an even more ancient tradition once held: very aware of his inclinations though, they decided against it.

  


Poor _Orion_ would hardly be _enthusiastic_ about one female, much less a small army of them: and from all of her female soldiers, neither had the _personality_ to endure being systematically _frustrated_ , ignored and even snapped at over time, without breaking, like herself.

  


The _sacrifices_ I make _._

  


* * *

 

  


The sacrifices _I_ make.

  


Jazz, just expelled out of Prowl’s Office, made sure to go to the next best place.

  


Stopping dead on his tracks as he heard the tell-tale sounds of _guilty_ post-overload slumber from a certainly glitched officer, behind the Security Office’s doors, he smirked, made a mental note to congratulate Inferno on a job well done and tip-toed away.

  


Jazz knew when _not_ to be inconvenient, he mused as he finally walked into his own quarters.

  


The only thing he didn’t know was how to make Prowl surrender. Making him feel _guilty_ doesn’t work. Waking up the interfacing protocols proves near impossible when nothing you do ever arouses or even amuses your counterpart.

  


Hell, even _Shockwave_ had eventually bonded, according to his safe sources, into a _traditional_ decepticon trinebond with no one less than Megatron and Soundwave.

  


Maybe old Sounders might have some tips on how to deal with utter unemotional mechs. He doubted Megs needs to do anything but _order_ that _drone_ to open up his plates and think of _Cybertron_ , to get things done.

  


Not that Jazz hadn’t tried just plain ordering Prowl around. A full week in the brig taught Jazz to never try it again. Something about disrupting the hierarchic chain.

  


Talk about the mech being a plain old stick in the mud, Jazz sagged on his couch, taking a mid-grade energon cube, rotating it slowly around its axis.

  


* * *

 

  


Slowly rotating around its axis his fingertip scalpel, his right hand being the only body part not currently holoformed, Shockwave prodded the fused struts of the Matrix, earning himself an _angry_ flicker of _her_ EM-field.

  


_Who that mech thought he was to just come by and poke?_

  


Shockwave stalled. The angry _humm_ was coming from the glowing _Matrix_ , who seemed to be very wary of the intrusion _._ Pondering on the situation, he spoke.

  


“I strongly advise against offering resistance. It is futile.”

  


The _Matrix_ glowed, deeply bothered with the _stranger_ , very aware that it wasn’t the real _Elita_ : no one but the Prime dared directly address her. Mechs were usually more respectful, and even Elita-1 properly ignored _her_ during _sparkmerges._

  


Shockwave, not really expecting an answer or a reply, plunged the scalpel back in, an arch of electricity zapping his frame in an attempt to stop him, as he brushed it aside.

  


“You will have to do better than this to prevent me. I am a determined mech on a self-imposed mission. Yield.”

  


He droned as he would to his experiments, datapads and subjects: the M _atrix_ just did the equivalent of _harrumphing_ , all dark intention deep inside.

  


* * *

 

  


Dark intention deep inside, Soundwave, refuelled to the maximum, left the Mess Hall slowly, parting the crowd as he walked away, doing his best not to sway in place.

  


His charge was currently unbearable and needed a suitable outlet: nothing like pure redirected energy from a bonded sparkmate, he mused as he reached his _Lord_ , currently alone watching the whales, as Soundwave stared, head tilted right.

  


* * *

 

  


Head tilted right, upper processor whirring in almost surprise, Shockwave blinked stupidly his visor, purple cable strained to its maximum, on his fours and glaring meekly at the Matrix-shaped paperweight practically under the desk, blue smoke coming out of his chestplates.

  


He had just been _zapped_ in a potentially disabling EMP that just didn’t _work_ as it was supposed to because he discharged the _excess charge_ through his feet on the ground.

  


_The Matrix_ certainly didn’t enjoy the notion of being _taken_ out of her comfort zone, namely The Prime, and surely knew how to protest.

  


Expressionless, still dazed, Shockwave stared at the big, shiny paperweight, briefly inspecting it: it was a tasteful silver-and-gold life-size reproduction of the Matrix, made with cybertronium alloys, containing a spark-blue crystal glass inside.

  


_Interesting_.

  


He was aware of the Lore conveying that The Matrix is the partially deactivated spark of Solus Prime.

  


He was very aware that sparks can be spliced.

  


Taking the paperweight in hand and standing up slowly, he straightened himself up and turned back to the still _paused_ Prime, cradling the paperweight against his own chest, measuring it up against the underside and taking visual measures of the bottom of his chestplates.

  


If _The Matrix_ won’t allow to be removed from her host like the good _parasite_ she was, then Shockwave would find a way of _splicing_ it.

  


Familiar with spark-splicing techniques required to produce drone armies, Shockwave knew the exact steps to take in order to achieve an efficient divide of a _stubborn_ spark into two twin counterparts, intent in greatly diminishing the Prime’s power at the same time he makes available the same power to the decepticons, levelling the _Game_.

  


Unfazed by his own brilliance, he ran a quick reading on the stored energy within the Prime, starting to divert it via his cortical psychic path towards the connection between him and the accursed _spark_ , at the same time leeching himself on the surplus energy, overcharging his own scalpel, turning his visor towards the paperweight, nodding.

  


In one precise move against the side of the desk, he _shattered_ the _glass_ of the Matrix-shaped paperweight, shifted to the real thing within the Prime's chest, peaked up the charge of his energon scalpel, and with no little _pleasure_ , dug through the swirling blue light.


	9. Shattered Glass

Swirling blue light filled the Ark, the _pleasant_ electric flow spreading slowly, charge going through every autobot's systems and discharging on the rocky grounds around Mount St Helen, in a field- _shared_ overload.

  


The deep grumbling bass of shock reverberated as Shockwave stood up slowly, _feeling_ a pang in his chest, noticing the ill-closed glass plates and opening them, peeking inside.

  


It had worked. The paperweight was slotted in a jolting mechanism he never owned before, something he attributed to the crafting and creator abilities of _Solus Prime_ , Queen of the Forge.

  


Manually closing the two halves of his cockpit glass, and jolting the mechanism inside and down his chest, Shockwave hid his new contraption from the prying optics of anyone that came too close to his transparent chestplates and rotated his own sparkchamber up, making sure it would be his spark visible, as it had always been, as he pondered about exactly what kind of other _abilities_ his _half of the Matrix_ would have granted him.

  


The Prime’s Office door slowly opened up, as Shockwave, holoformed into _Elita_ , peeked out, then left the room as if nothing had happened, walking by the corridor and contemplating the stasis-locked mechs oozing ozone, spread here and there around the base.

  


As the last _autobot_ standing, Shockwave puffed up his chestplates.

  


Nothing like a job well-done to make a mech satisfied.

  


* * *

 

  


Satisfied, he had to commend Soundwave on a _job_ well-done.

  


Megatron had been ambushed, pinned against the brine water on the ground, trapped by a pair of datacables latching against his legs and another holding his hands above his head, and ended up being ridden to near-overload by the skilled hands, cables and ports of the _starved_ tapedeck, who made sure to _numb_ him enough with charge before the always _painful_ , despite ultimately rewarding, sparkmerge.

  


For the first time Megatron could feel the little _Menace_ attempting to rotate around his own spark during the brief moment both sparks were out of their chambers, swirling in thin air and soon captured back by the _possessive_ EM-field of Soundwave’s spark; as soon as they separated though, the newspark this time visibly avoided any proximity with the damaged sparkchamber, latching even further against Soundwave, without the need of intervention from its host.

  


Smart spark.

  


“What frame are you giving it?”

  


Soundwave, still basking post-overload, tracing idle patterns with his blue fingers on Megatron’s chestplates, shrugged. It was so far away still in time, so many centuries to go, he had no idea, and right now he couldn’t care less.

  


“Go for a flight frame. They make the best spies. You’ll have more than enough time to come up with something good.”

  


“Yes, Lord Megatron.”

  


* * *

 

  


_Excellent_ , Shockwave pondered under his now non-holoformed shell, as he managed to return the erased holomatter cube back to the Lab, practically stepping over the still offline Perceptor and Wheeljack.

  


Walking by the security room, locating Inferno and Red Alert in a very compromising position, briefly pondering he wouldn’t have minded getting sprayed by Inferno as well, Shockwave didn’t spare an extra glance to them as he reviewed the security recordings to make sure he would erase all the ones pertaining his stealing of the Matrix, and was quite glad to find out the lovebirds had scrambled the cameras and the recordings without his intervention and he needed to do nothing at all.

  


_Excellent_.

  


Going finally into Elita-1’s door and keying her spark frequency in, he made sure _Queen Elita_ would be as offline as the rest of the crew, taking mental note of her sprawled self, inside the energon bathtub.

  


Self-indulgent _female_ autobot.

  


Hauling her away from there over his left shoulder, he took her into the Prime’s Office, where he had left Optimus resting over the desk.

  


Contemplating, pensive, he finally set Elita-1 right over him, chestplate-to-chestplate, straddling his legs, then stared neutrally at the scene he himself created for them, shaking his head in disapproval.

  


Leave it to the Prime to prefer this _female_ instead of the intellectually superior CMO.

  


After visiting all the relevant sectors of the Ark, and even making sure Prowl was as off as anyone, Shockwave headed to the Rec Room almost on autopilot, more than starved, walking to the energon dispenser and immediately taking a cube, connecting his straw into it and starting to refuel: he had a _hunger_ at least four millions years old, certainly come from the half-Matrix, one no _energon_ could sate, but mere energon would just have to do.

  


The _half_ Matrix currently housed within his own chest, much like a hungry _parasite_ , begun spreading her tendrils slowly, intimately, latching onto his own spark and systems, apparently very much _willing_ to regrow, and for that he would need a steady source of energy.

  


The heliformer had actually half-expected for protest from his _parasite_ and was surprised to find none. No belligerence, no furious energy zaps, no angry flicker of EM-fields, almost like the _half_ he had in chest accepted him as her new _host_.

  


Satisfied, Shockwave nodded to himself and to _his_ Matrix inside, speeding up the refuelling and receiving a distant, base, content humm in response.

  


As he filled a second and a third cube, he couldn’t stop pondering on the similarity of consumption that a sparked Soundwave reached when compared to his _hosting_ self: he would certainly fill datapads about such fascinating comparison later.

  


Which was the main reason why he wouldn’t leave to the Decepticons now: according to common knowledge, they were often starved, the autobots on Earth had fuel to spare, and Shockwave rationally had no idea of how much energon he would consume from now on.

  


Not to mention that going away now with the whole autobot fleet unconscious, immediately the suspicions would be up on him, and he wanted no one to make the connection between the half-Matrix on the Prime’s chest and his disappearance.

  


The time for _rekindling_ would come, and with that, the Decepticon Victory. For now, the choice was made for him, and he could barely wait for the day his _Decepticon_ _Matrix_ was ready for him to leave.

  


As such, that night, Shockwave, laid on his berth and lulled by Ratchet’s offlined _rattle_ , the distant rev of a recovering Matrix reaching his audials, dreamed of a binary spark system humming and rotating methodically, illuminating the dark.

  


* * *

 

  


Illuminating the dark, the binary spark system rotated and hummed in a distant rev, nearly inaudible except for the expert audials of a certain tapedeck, behind its transparent glass.

  


Having been _sated_ in his spark-energy hunger for the time being, Soundwave now rested in the dark surrounded by his creations both around his spark and within his docks, in his own private quarters, currently tracking the seven spark-energies in his mind, each possessing its own unique frequency and subsonic sound.

  


Blinking slowly, he couldn’t help feeling a distant _tug_ not originating from either creations, neither from Megatron himself: despite knowing Shockwave had blocked the transmission of feelings between himself and the bondmates, Soundwave knew _how_ to track his existence, even half a Universe away.

  


Even if he had been behaving eerily drone-like and angering their _Lord_ by ignoring the orders to open the spacebridge, even if he didn’t talk to them more than the necessary, even when he _locked_ the transmission of any feeling within their bond, even considering his presumed trauma of never being able to get sparked, he was still their sparkmate and Soundwave would always care about him and his whereabouts.

  


Perhaps he had too few energon to spare on frivolities like opening the bridge up for _rekindling_. Perhaps he was distraught by projects or just the pesky female autobots. Of course Shockwave had a good and logical excuse to not meet them in person.

  


If only Soundwave knew _why_ , he might properly convince Megatron that everything was right and well.

  


* * *

 

  


Everything was right and well.

  


Prowl, standing up slowly from the ground, as the sun rose, had just received a HUD warning about the recent complete defrag of his systems following a total environmentally-originated system overcharge and drain.

  


Then why did it look like everything _wasn’t_?

  


Thoughtfully scratching his chin, he walked out of his office, taking notice of the _chaos_ surrounding the base and the dreaded scent of ozone from slightly fried systems.

  


Immediately thinking about a Surprise Decepticon Attack, he headed to the Security Office, opened the door up, glared inside for three full seconds, then closed the door back, faceplates flushed in a mix of anger and something he couldn’t quite understand but bordered on disappointment and shame.

  


Of all mechs, he didn’t expect Red Alert to _slack_ off like this.

  


This was mighty grave and required immediate action, he pondered as he moved towards the Prime’s Office, intent in making a full report.

  


The instant he opened the Prime’s door, he looked in, stared at his superior officer and commander, glowered at the sprawled _Elita-1_ , then twitching his left optic, closed the door back, turned on his heels and left.

  


_Interface-driven mechlings!_

  


Was he the only mech responsible enough around???

  


* * *

  


 

“Am I the only mech responsible enough around?”

  


Skywarp meekly looked up to his Trine Leader from his spot _within_ the wall, half of his body sticking inside the room, and the other half sticking outside of the ship, after his most recently unsuccessful VOP.

  


“…sorry?”

  


Thundercracker facepalmed, as an annoyed Starscream shook his head, finally smirking and handing his blue trinemate the building material: perhaps now their idiotic bonded was _stuck_ , they could finally accomplish to craft the first of their many planned solar collectors up.

  


“…I said I was sorry, Screamer!! TC!! Please don’t leave me here!! Gimme energy to VOP out!! I promise to be _nice_!”

  


As they sat on a desk and started following the solar collector plans, Skywarp wriggled stuck into the wall, muttering to himself he would find a way out and that it wasn’t fair of them, ignoring him like this.

  


* * *

 

  


He was tired of being ignored like this.

  


“So. What happened around here?”

  


Wheeljack, prodded by a pair of feet, blinked from the spot on the ground he had been laid on, looked up to the stern faceplates of the SIC and protected his battlemask from sight with his forearms and his open palms up.

  


“It wasn’t me! I didn’t blow up anything this time! My Plot Device Unit is intact!”

  


Prowl sighed, turning to Perceptor, who was already up on the computer trying to analyse the Lab’s databank readings.

  


“According to our environmental sensors, apparently a burst of pure spark-energy was discharged from a single spot originating from Prime’s Office, spreading around the base in a radius in an EMP-like wave that reset every mech’s systems, defragged all files and ultimately knocked everyone off.”

  


Prowl stared blankly. Wheeljack cleared his voicebox.

  


“What he meant is, everyone was hit by what seems to be a _shared_ overload.”

  


Perceptor nodded, as Prowl groaned, the mental image of Elita-1 and Optimus invading his mind, array-to-array and chest-to-chest over the other right at his desk.

  


He and the Prime most definitely had to _talk_.

  


* * *

  


 

“Soundwave and Shockwave: have to talk.”

  


Soundwave, having hacked his way through the comms in Shockwave’s Tower on Cybertron, managed to capture the image of Shockwave – the sparkless drone – ordering his team of drones around the base ineffectively enough to miss all the shots against the retreating _female_ autobots leaving the tower with energon.

  


The sparkless drone never noticed the open comm, grumbling to himself _“Aw, shit, they escaped again_.” as he sagged and walked very dejectedly to the other side of the room, where the main guardian drone gave him an awkward hug and patted him on his back.

  


“ _Don’t worry mighty Shockwave, you’ll get them someday.”_

  


“ _Thanks.”_

  


The cyclopic drone wiped away a coolant tear forming from his single optic, then straightened himself as he finally noticed the faceplates of Soundwave staring very _worried_ with a tilt to the left from the screen.

  


“ _Soundwave, how may I, Lord Megatron’s appointed Guardian of Cybertron, serve the Cause today? I assure you the display between the drone and I was merely professional.”_

  


Soundwave blinked. Since when did Shockwave require comfort from any source, especially from a drone? And since when did Shockwave actually _care_ enough to shed coolant tears or to explain himself? Could the isolation be making Shockwave finally insane???

  


“Soundwave: currently worried about Shockwave’s change of personality. Requesting Spacebridge to meet Shockwave in person. Perhaps Soundwave might be able to help.”

  


The drone, nearly glitching at the idea of opening a spacebridge for either Soundwave of Megatron, who could unmask him in a sparkbeat, tried desperately to find a way out of having to respond: he had also not been given protocols to answer to these accusations.

  


Shifting his glare right and left and twitching his antennae, he ran out of sight, screeching that the _feeemale_ autobots were out to get Megatron’s energy and he would shoot them to oblivion, turning the screen to black and finally the comms off.

  


Soundwave, witnessing the display, had to agree Megatron had reasons enough to be worried, afterall.

  


Ejecting Frenzy and Rumble, Soundwave knelt down and faced them at optic level.

  


“Rumble, Frenzy. Twice Reflector had travelled via Space Bridge with energon cubes for Shockwave. Soundwave: will hack his databanks for codes and commands. Mission: find Reflector and bring all his components to my presence.”

  


Rumble and Frenzy shared a glance, shifting on their feet, as Rumble finally spoke.

  


“Sorry, Sounders, no can do.”

  


Soundwave _glowers_ , EM-field flaring in anger at the negative: Frenzy sags, telling him calmly and slowly _why_ Reflector was currently out of reach of every single decepticon on Earth.

  


* * *

 

  


Out of reach from every single decepticon on Earth, Reflector, basking on the _glory_ of being the most famous and currently he only _Art Photographer_ on Cybertron, sunbathed on the beaches of the Sea of Rust, contemplating the waves taking trashed metal and Emptie's shells in and out of the sand.

  


Why hadn’t they thought of leaving the Decepticons before? They never appreciated his talents anyway. Now that everyone had cell-phones and could take _selfies_ , which _amateur_ needed an analogical camera anyway?

  


Staring at the chair on his right, he focused his optics and photographed the sun kissed visage of Knock-Out, holding a sunbathing mirror before his faceplates and wearing sunglasses, followed by Hot Rod, currently sipping pink high-grade energon through a fancy umbrella straw from a tiny flute, cross-legged on another chair.

  


Beautiful mechs to be portrayed and displayed, clients willing to pay, and not a single maniac tyrant threatening to rip out his spark in case he failed him yet again!

  


Could life get any better than this?

  


* * *

 

  


Life couldn’t get any _better_ than this.

  


Optimus grumbled, optics still off, for some reason laid back on his desk: he had a terrible feeling of chill and dread on his systems and couldn’t place the cause on anything he currently knew.

  


Even the Matrix, usually the first to _bitch_ and complain whenever anything was off, rested unusually quiet, humming sedately on the background of his spark.

  


As such, taking _her_ silence as a good signal, shrugging the phantom pains on his processors away, ignoring the light weight over his shell, he finally took the courage to open his optics, finding Elita-1 atop his chest, slowly coming online as well.

  


Both finally were awake enough to share a glower, and glower they did. Elita was the first to speak, both legs shamelessly straddling the Prime’s array.

  


“I commend you for going _that_ low, _Prime_. I should be filing a complaint to Prowl. No matter that we are sparkmates and we are supposed to produce a fragging _newspark_ , you are not allowed to drag me here and _take_ me on my sleep!”

  


Optimus, hands _flying_ to hold his mate in place, grounded Elita by her hips, making her face him as he sat up.

  


“Take! As far as I remember, I was having a flux reminiscent of the day of our _beloved_ public sparkbond, most probably had my chestplates wide open during it, as you know very well I probably _did_ , and who managed to seize my _vulnerable_ state was _you_ , so who should be filing a complaint to Prowl is me.”

  


Optic to optic, they kept their glare, only snapping out of it once the door opened, revealing Prowl.

  


Before either could file their complaints, the SIC dutifully ignored them sitting on such position atop the desk, and sternly handed to each of them a ticket.

  


“A _fine_?”

  


They spoke in unison as Prowl nodded to Optimus and Elita blinked, furious.

  


“For disrupting every single mech’s systems with a spark-originated _overload_ so strong our security was wholly compromised and the whole base had been afflicted, I sentence, based on the Primeval Laws, you both to staying _apart_ from each other out of proper settings and forbid you to interface much less sparkmerge outside of the Prime’s shielded quarters.”

  


Elita, about to protest, stopped: it was the perfect _opportunity_ for her to _not_ have to sparkmerge to carry the _spawn_ that the Matrix had demanded of them.

  


“Very well. As Law-abiding consort of the Prime, I accept my punishment. I will be in my quarters.”

  


She bowed her head, slapped Optimus’ hand away from her hips, growled to him, jumped out of his lap, landed on her feet, car-moded and left, as Optimus still contemplated the fine, massaging his temples with the free hand, finally leaving the desk and walking to his SIC.

  


“Prowl. I didn’t do anything. When I took a nap over my desk I was for some reason having a memory flux with her, but I never went after _her_ much less brought her in! I’m sure we can find the real culprit through the security cameras if we just ask Red Alert.”

  


Prowl shook his head.

  


“Red Alert and Inferno _fragged_ as royally as _you_ , Prime, pun intended, and because of their _effusiveness_ over the console, not a single reliable recording of the whole base could be obtained during the time period. I checked.”

  


Before Optimus could ask, he aborted the notion. He had enough problems as it was, and he decided that this was the reason why he had a SIC, and that he didn’t really _need_ to know.

  


* * *

 

  


Soundwave decided he didn’t need to _know_.

  


After finding out Reflector had left the decepticons, by currently reading the _magazine_ on _Art and Photography_ that Rumble and Frenzy dutifully handed him, where his tasteful photographic work was displayed for every Cybertronian to see for just a few _shanix_ , Soundwave concluded that Shockwave displaying emotions and interacting with his drones was the least of their problems.

  


Reflector had a _photographic_ memory and many codes from the decepticons in presumed storage: since Shockwave was uncooperative, and getting to the three-compound decepticon would not be an option, Soundwave groaned imagining the millions of lines of code he was supposed to modify to make sure they would not undergo a grave security breech.

  


Offlining his visor and feeling for the subsonic waves come from the tiny EM-field of his orbiting _creation_ , looping in eights around his own spark, Soundwave started working immediately: he knew he was due to months of non-stop work from now on, and he most definitely was _not_ going to slack off.

  


* * *

 

  


He was not going to slack off this time.

  


“ _Red Alert. Be reasonable.”_

  


Red Alert ignored his comm, having already fixed all the cameras and viewports from his myriad of security cameras.

  


“ _C’mon Red. We both know you loved it.”_

  


Red Alert couldn’t deny, but no overload was worth the loss of millions of databanks and images and the potential hazard risk of a dreadful undocumented event taking place around the base.

  


He nearly bit his fingertips off at the notion, shuddering: What if someone had attempted to harm the Prime? What if someone had tried stealing the Matrix?

  


“Quit tempting me, you _fiend_. I’m never leaving the Security Room ever again and you aren’t coming in either. Because of you Prowl gave _us_ a _fine_!”

  


* * *

 

  


“A fine?”

  


Prowl nodded. Jazz leered from his seat.

  


“But I was as off as anymech, mech, I got victim of a Prime Overload! Why am I gettin’fined too?”

  


Prowl tilts his head, smirking and coming close to where Jazz was sitting, placing both hands on his shoulders, approaching their faces.

  


“Because I _can_. I know a single fine won’t teach you anything. But: one full year banned from even _attempting_ of physically approaching me most certainly _will_.”

  


Turning on his heels then, he left Jazz’ room, as the stupefied TIC took a long stare at his aft as the door closed, sighing.

  


When was Prowl ever going to see they were made for each other, _quitting_ his eternal, stupid, _relationship_ strike and finally, finally allow them to _know_ each other?

  


Why did Jazz put up with this mech anyway??

  


Closing his optics and visualising the retreating aft, Jazz remembered why.

  


Oh yeah.

  


A year would _go_ in a blink.


	10. Going Home

The year went by in a blink.

  


Mentally reviewing last year’s events in mind, Optimus Prime, optics off, sprawled on his couch, checked on his list.

  


Blaster growing _neutral_ at Ironhide afters centuries of _feud_ was not to be taken lightly: aware that the tapedeck had contacted a Lawyercon on Cybertron and of the speed at which processes and lawsuits ran, Optimus knew that this was just the calm before the storm, and deep down the progressively more depressed Ironhide _knew_ too.

  


Skyfire having been caught _fraternising_ with the enemy _For Science_ , full of purplish scratches and dents and a strangely happy stance in faceplates that didn’t fade, visibly growled at Perceptor, still not in speaking terms to the microscope, smugly telling him he now had the fresh files on Astrotrain’s triplechanging abilities and had absolutely no intention of sharing, before being taken to the brig by _Prowl_. Since then, Optimus had to order Wheeljack to remain in between both scientists serving as bridge, at the same time little Ramhorn pestered the engineer about his incoming frame upgrade that never took place, and the Prime was dreading the instant Blaster would come by to take satisfaction personally.

  


Jazz had been creepily _stalking_ the second in command Prowl, dutifully remaining at a distance from him, annoying and scaring the hell out of everyone in sight. Time in brig didn’t help. Optimus was at a full loss about what to do, but Prowl seemed to feel actually _proud_ of whatever he did to provoke it.

  


Wheelie’s murderer remained a full-fledged mystery: Prowl and Red alert refused to talk on the subject at all, Jazz had no clue and no info, and his corpse had been obliterated into spare parts, by a very dutiful and suspiciously _quiet_ Strongarm, who had been displaying exemplary behaviour and remaining respectfully away from any mechs not requesting his work, not a single time attempting to bring Optimus into unneeded and unwanted maintenance.

  


Groaning on his stiff, grime-caked and uncared for articulations and struts, Optimus decided not to regret his decision on stopping to undergo medical maintenance: he knew he was fine, and working perfectly well. The Matrix’ lack of _nerve_ and snark recently was indeed a blessing, and _she_ had been performing well in every single other matter, communing with him in hums and flickers of EM-field, positively rewarding him whenever he started remembering he was supposed to produce a newspark, but otherwise never demanding or even forcing him into sparkmerge.

  


A perfect _lady_.

  


Speaking on _lady_ , let’s not forget about Elita: despite her claims, Optimus couldn’t believe he might have kidnapped her and seized to sparkmerge against her will, not even the opposite way around: he was a firmly believer in consensual interfacing and sparkmerging, and had even isolated the _medical_ file pertaining his day’s last events before the _shared_ overload, but currently faced a different kind of problem.

  


It required a _medic_ to open it, and Optimus wasn’t exactly in speaking terms with the _medical_ _class_.

  


Ratchet would either review it and be _smug_ for being called to help, or refuse to review it and also be _smug_ about being _requested_ , which was not an option for the Prime; Strongarm might seize the opportunity to run a side _experiment_ in his frame while he decoded the medical file, which was also not acceptable, and he didn’t want to hurt poor First Aid’s feelings letting him see how much he hated medics.

  


As such, accepting his _ignorance_ on what he did, or did not do, with Elita-1 that day, but feeling no less guilty, Optimus resigned himself to the hard truth that he was being blatantly refused by her.

  


How was Optimus going to accomplish the demanded _sparkmerge_ to produce a newspark if he and his _sparkmate_ didn’t even remain in the same general area, much less recharged together, during the last year?

  


Optimus knew she didn’t want to get sparked, and deep down he thought the Matrix had a terrible idea, but wasn’t going to contest _her_. He had been given a mission, and he would accomplish it, but he refused to condone _rape_ in any of its forms.

  


Shaking his head at the fact that creating distance between them didn’t make the spark grow fonder, Optimus didn’t know how to make Elita even remotely interested, when not even _he_ currently were.

  


He was certainly going to need a _miracle_.

  


* * *

 

  


He was going to need a miracle.

  


No force in the Universe could make _Mighty_ Shockwave open the spacebridge a _single_ time during the last year, not even the promise of _energon cubes_. He became even more evasive after Soundwave’s first and last attempt to talk.

  


Feeling for the distant muted touch of his spark through the bond, Soundwave knew Shockwave’s spark was calm, neutral, content even, which didn’t fit with the displays of stupidity and hesitation that were appearing on-screen most of the time he managed to hack into the camera systems.

  


Talking on _camera_ , Soundwave’s inability to get Shockwave to open the bridge up meant he was still completely out of touch with Reflector, and Soundwave could hardly wait until he got his blue fingers on them: by obsessively changing every single security code on the base, he managed to locate the video file where Reflector had destroyed his BW Megatron Deluxe toy (which technically meant Skywarp wasn’t to blame – not that he would apologise to the warping fool) and swore, obviously, energon-soaked revenge.

  


His whole energy however was not up to Revenge for now.

  


After a full year of not getting enough spark-energy from Lord Megatron, who understandably avoided sparkmerging as much as _required_ because of the pain in his sparkchamber, and had to be coaxed every single time, Soundwave felt _depleted_ , even despite the latest three successful energon raids against petrol plants in the Arabian lands (currently not monitored by the Autobots _because_ they were not under the USA’s jurisdiction) and the plenty of fuel available.

  


He _needed_ Shockwave’s merges, the pure and uncomplicated spark-energy from a mech who no longer existed or even _performed_ unless prompted, on his residual emotions and dutifully delivered _energy_ to him whenever needed and _logically_ requested.

  


Deciding he needed _any_ energy _now_ , datacables slotting out from his own back as he offlined his optics and connected each of them into the console with a click, Soundwave started a slow but steady drain of raw energon through the very _Nemesis_ herself, instead of conventionally refuelling via intake under the battlemask, as the energon-o-meter slowly indicated the flowing down.

  


* * *

 

 

  


Watching the energon-o-meter flowing down slowly, Starscream nodded, smirking.

  


It’s been one full year since he started building solar collectors, and now they littered the surface of the ship’s lift, going up twice a day to collect further energy.

  


It took him their _rogue_ install and their steady energon flow to prove the idiotic leader that the idea was feasible: Starscream knew that Megatron just plain grumbling and not trashing him for having acted on his back meant a certain tapedeck had been keeping him _busy_ and probably sore, and that this time _Starscream_ won.

  


Hell, the SIC had even been authorised to go into _town_ and gathering new compounds for another set of solar collectors, which was a feat in itself.

  


As such, intent in going _shopping_ , Starscream gathered his trine and left the Nemesis in a VOP, unwilling to press on his _luck_.

  


* * *

 

  


Unwilling to press on his luck, Shockwave sedately refuelled on the Rec Room.

  


He spent the last year following the light, reasonable demands of an admittedly polite _Matrix_ , who didn’t exactly order him around unlike _lore_ suggested, merely generating _urges_ , like the obvious need to refuel, logically – it had required energon in heaps to recover and regrow, and regrow it did.

  


It’s been a few weeks ago that the _Matrix_ came to life within his chestplates, did a full system scan and suddenly stopped increasing in consumption, settling for its final size and daily energy input, sending Shockwave a general _feeling_ of readiness and _enough._

  


Feeling like a bottomless pit as he drained on his third energon cube in a row, Shockwave was truly glad to see the autobots never cared to track how much energy each mech consumed daily anyway.

  


The perks of _plenty_.

  


Sometimes he would get a nearly _pleading_ call in his spark, despite having blocked the transmission of feelings back and forth via _bond_ ; he was positive Soundwave might have been truly _needy_ for even the dulled feeling to come across, and unable to not think about the implications on his probable sparking and logical neediness, aware his _Decepticon_ _Matrix_ was ready, Shockwave sometimes remembered _home._

  


He was waiting for the right chance to leave. The flawless moment. The perfect Tempo.

  


As soon as the sirens klaxon-roared in the base, Red Alert’s dutiful voice echoed _“Decepticon Raid Alert, Starscream’s Trine, follow coordinates!”_ , and controlled chaos reigned around Shockwave, with mechs going back and forth as he remained absolutely undisturbed.

  


Starscream. The only way they would raid on their own was if Skywarp was there to VOP them away. Which basically meant…

  


Offlining his visor once and sending a silent ping to _his_ Matrix, Shockwave received a single, content _humm_ followed by a heated warmth in his chest, finally nodding to himself, standing up and abandoning his half-finished energon cube.

  


It was about _Time._

  


* * *

 

  


It was about _Time_ , pondered Starscream in his root mode, contemplating the _wave_ of autobots arriving at his coordinates.

  


He and his trine had just ripped off the solar collectors off a solar power plant, ready to _VOP_ them into the Nemesis: nodding once to Skywarp, who was nearly crackling with excess charge and ready to VOP, he turned to Thundercracker and rotating his index around its axis in the air, gave a silent command as he flew up.

  


Observing from his advantage point Skywarp VOPing away as the outraged autobots shot into a now empty spot, he couldn’t help cackling as Thundercracker deafened and confused the enemy by breaking the barrier of sound around them, at the same time evading Ironhide’s shots.

  


Truly glad to see the absence of Defensor and its aerial compound, Blades, Starscream patted himself in the backstruts for having chosen the perfect spot for his attack. The autobots were so used for the decepticons raiding for petrol, that they just didn’t have enough troops out of patrol to protect less important areas like the solar plant they raided today.

  


Checking on his inner chronometer, Starscream smirked: in any moment Skywarp would have finished unloading the compounds, refuelling and finally be back to taxi them away for good: soon he would be back into building their solar net. Soon…

  


TCHWAK!!!

  


So engrossed was Starscream watching Thundercracker overpower a dozen autobots with his superior aerial manoeuvres, that he wholly missed the white flying _bolt_ tackling him down in mid-air.

  


“Release me you insolent!!!”

  


Ignoring Starscream’s rant as they rotate in the air, Shockwave’s back rotor roaring madly and failing as they descent, the heliformer held himself through his chest-hook and chain into the air commander’s cockpit, turning his visor right into his optics and monotoning.

  


“I observed your trine raiding on your own without any backup, so I calculate that Skywarp will be back to VOP you away. I shall seize the opportunity. I am ready whenever you are.”

  


Before Starscream would say anything on the matter, _this_ was precisely what the suddenly teleported Skywarp did, touching his leader in the shoulder and VOPing his full trine and the stowaway heliformer as the autobots _stared_ , _unbelieving_.

  


* * *

 

  


Unbelieving, the autobots blinked at the purple smoke disappearing with the decepticon trine, as Ironhide shot multiple times at where there previously had been the enemy with their junior medical officer, who usually never underwent battle.

  


Only stopping once his ammo was over, Ironhide growled as he subspaced his chainguns back.

  


“What are you looking at? The Decepticons _retreated_ , there’s nothing new about that! Everybody back to base!!! NOW!!!”

  


Exchanging a few glowers with the defeated autobots, Ironhide, leading the troops out, shook his head, transforming and recalling the _kidnapped_ heliformer, wondering about what he would _do_ now.

  


* * *

 

  


Soundwave _knew_ what he would have to do now.

  


He was _starved_. He had an itch impossible to scratch on his own, not even by means of his four datacables.

  


He had twelve docks and one _port_ too many.

  


Some mechs thought having multiple ports was a blessing: only a carrier-host knew the true extent of their curse.

  


Considering he had twelve docks and four dataports matching his four datacables on his conventional array, not to mention the double-purpose cord-and-port system, it would hardly be through regular interface that his _hunger_ could be sated: for carrier-host models, only a true sparkmerge could _do_.

  


Unsated by regular interface unless it involved sparkmerge, carrier-hosts were fated to carry loads of newsparks due to the frequent spark-exchange through their lives: those who didn’t have an _energetic_ , comprehensive mate, often searched for trine or polybonds. Those with single bonds or no bond tended to slowly go insane or just plain _resentful_ , like good old _Blaster_.

  


The less lucky would eventually resort to _promiscuity_ , giving carrier-hosts Cybertronwide a bad name, which was why classically his _kind_ were _exploited_ in _shareware_ -market, and the few who could escape this venue preferred to pursue career by _plugging_ into communications and computer nets to mimicry the multiple connections their systems frequently _required_.

  


Offlining his visor and embracing himself with his four datacables, entwining on his limbs sinuously as he could almost _taste_ a slow, deep, _through_ sparkmerge like only his Lord knew how to provide, Soundwave shuddered in anticipation.

  


Since Shockwave was away, Lord Megatron would just _have_ to make do.

  


As such, showing his faceplates in every single screen of the Nemesis, he _called_.

  


* * *

 

  


_Called_ , Megatron startled from his throne where he was sitting contemplating the misery of being on this dustball waiting for Starscream to return with the bounty of _solar collectors_ , of fighting the autobots for energy and the possession of the _Matrix_ , glumly staring at the eight twin screens surrounding him, depicting no one less than Soundwave.

  


“Soundwave?”

  


Stoically, Soundwave tilted his head, his voice booming from every single audial within the ship.

  


“ _Sparkmerging: not an option anymore. Preferable sparkmerging partner: Lord Megatron. Will seek for alternative if Lord Megatron refuses to comply within the next full solar cycle, counting 24 earthly hours, chronometer starting now. Soundwave out.”_

  


Blinking stupefied, _outraged_ , Megatron stalled his in-venting, as the decepticons blurted static trying to muffle their laughter and the Tyrant just plain shot them away with his cannon, looking around and finding no signs of his second in command, grumbling angrily on his _seat._

  


Somehow, in some way, it _had_ to be Starscream’s fault.

  


* * *

 

  


“It’s Starscream’s fault! I just followed orders!!!”

  


Thundercracker growled at Skywarp, who recoiled: it wasn’t his fault the _stowaway_ was latched onto the Screamer when he showed up to VOP them back home!

  


As they bitched on the background, Starscream walked in circles around the bound, knelt down, white heliformer, glaring down and inspecting, as the unfazed _autobot_ just kept staring ahead neutrally.

  


“You were stupid enough to place yourself in my servos: know that your life depends on my good will. I could certainly use a _slave_.”

  


Thundercracker and Skywarp observed from a safe distance as Starscream placed a finger under the mech’s chin, raising it up to face him as he read his ID plate on his left shoulder.

  


“ _Strongarm._ A _chevroned_ medic, imported from Cybertron, I presume, and a pseudo, rotary flier who thinks he can _tackle_ Starscream, Prince of Vos and Decepticon Air Commander. Start _pleading_ , _medic_ , now.”

  


At that, Shockwave tilted his head to the right, flaring his visor once.

  


“I _demand_ to see _Lord_ Megatron, the one and true leader of the Decepticons, _sub_ commander Starscream.”

  


A sudden and loud _slap_ filled the room, Shockwave’s face turned to the right without a flicker of pain or regret, as the left side of his battlemask appeared dented in and scrapped with clawed streaks of blue.

  


“Let’s see how unbidden your vocoder is after going without fuel. I can _almost_ see you _begging_.”

  


* * *

 

  


“I’m _begging_.”

  


Optimus inhaled deeply: he had just received news from Ironhide that _Strongarm_ had apparently been taken prisoner by Starscream and currently was torn between knowing his faction lost a chevroned medic and should negotiate, and the fact he lost a personal _nemesis_ he didn’t exactly feel like retrieving.

  


Which was the reason why Ratchet, the CMO, had resorted to _begging_.

  


“It’s not a sound tactic, Ratchet. As soon as Ironhide informed me, Prowl came by to advise me against negotiating with the decepticons, not to give them any _leverage_.”

  


Optimus nodded to himself, proud: it was partially true, at least the part about Prowl being against negotiation: he had actually calculated _Strongarm_ would be _even more of a liability_ if he were _not_ retrieved, and warned about the need to include Jazz and his Spec Ops into a convoluted rescue plan, which the Prime didn’t _want_ working on at all.

  


“Please. I never ask for anything. Tell me you’ll do it, Prime.”

  


Optimus, doing his best to ignore Ratchet while fidgeting with his datapads, almost squeezed them broken at the medic’s insistence, then slowly calmed down and placed them atop the Holy Mesh Book. The old battered book was slightly deformed for being too much manipulated, and rose a bit, making all datapads fall on the ground, spreading.

  


Cursing, Optimus stood up and started collecting the datapads back. Why did he take into Primedom anyway?

  


Oh yeah. Shockwave carved him a Matrix-shaped hole.

  


If only Shockwave could have a _taste_ of his own remedy.

  


Of course, he _agreed_ to it, but still: weren't for then-Senator Shockwave, he would still be a data clerk in Iacon, and happy about it.

  


“Why had that damn life-size cybertronium paperweight in the shape of the Matrix to disappear?”

  


Ratchet almost stepped closer to help, the moment Optimus pointed a finger to his direction, beyond angry.

  


“You stop right there. Despite whatever you may think on that _spawn_ of the Matrix, cold-constructed _butcher_ you took a shine to, I'm getting convinced he is a decepticon infiltrated specially to make me insane! I bet he even hid my favourite paperweight too! It used to keep my Book of Primus prim, and properly in place!”

  


Ratchet sighed, clenching his fists.

  


“...But, if you insist on talking about your _junior medical officer_ , the same who would vivisect an innocent just to see how their unique T-cogs function, the one who would mind-rape a test-subject, sorry, a _patient_ into stasis to save on anaesthetics… tell me, Ratchet, why would _we_ _need_ him back???”

  


Oh yes, Ratchet forgot _._ The fact that Strongarm did _do_ these things at one point or another certainly didn't help.

  


“Prime, be reasonable, I am currently understaffed. First Aid has been busy with his gestaltmates, since Strongarm had been chevroned, and can rarely be found around the medbay, all with his side-missions of rescue with the other protectobots.” Ratchet sagged “ _I_ need that sparkless bastard back _._ ”

  


Optimus then stopped altogether, rolling a datastream in his processors.

  


“I see what this is about. You still hate my _decision_ back then.” he rose to his height “I bet by now Megatron already has _your_ dear _assistant_ and I hope he is using his head as a paperweight. Strongarm’s loss will be absorbed by First Aid the way he can, and that is final.”

  


In barely contained anger, _tired_ of submitting to the Prime’s will, Ratchet minutely bowed his head, then turned on his wheels, intent in reaching his special _reserve_ , as he transformed and left.

  


* * *

 

  


Left to his own devices, locked within Starscream’s trine Room, Shockwave calculated he wouldn’t last without refuelling at least two cubes a day, now that he bore a full _Matrix_ within, no more than a full day, when under normal conditions he might have lasted more than a decacycle.

  


He didn’t want to identify himself to the screamer, who would certainly seize the opportunity to dispose off his _spark_ if only to endanger Lord Megatron due to their shared bond.

  


Concluding he wouldn’t come out of his _prison_ in time without aid, he unblocked his sparkbond to Lord Megatron, flaring his true spark frequency through the bond, offlining his visor and coldly _calling_.

  


* * *

 

  


Coldly called in the deepest reaches of his painful sparkchamber, intensely and with no finesse, Megatron stalled, the instant Starscream set foot on his throne room to communicate the raid had been successful.

  


Unamused by Soundwave’s earlier _display_ , squinting as he stared at his second in command like he were _vermin_ , Megatron tapped on his throne’s arm, _waiting_.

  


Stuttering once at the predatory sight, not understanding what he did do of _wrong_ this time, Starscream cleared his voicebox and started telling about how many pieces and human collectors they managed to acquire, the moment Megatron had another _spark pain._

  


Immediately connecting Starscream’s success with the painful insistent tug in his spark, the tyrant stood up, walking and glaring down at him.

  


“Was that _all_ , Starscream?”

  


Before Starscream could protest, a third tug came and Megatron captured his SIC by his neck, walking through the door ominously.

  


* * *

 

  


Ominously walking through the door, Megatron entered Starscream’s Trine quarters regally, throwing a charred seeker, fuming, on a scrap pile at the floor, capturing the attention of its current sole occupant.

  


His optics scanned the bound, knelt down heliformer indifferently, as he kicked the Starscream heap to a side, coming closer.

  


“So the stupid fool thought he could hide a _prisoner_ from me.”

  


The helicopter looked up, expressionless, as Megatron continued.

  


“Too bad for you. I don't make deals with autobots.”

  


He aimed the fusion canon, as Shockwave, a gleam in his visor, bowed his head down, humbling himself even further, and finally offlined his visor, speaking.

  


“I am honoured to serve you yet again, my Liege.”

  


Megatron almost shot him then, the instant something _off_ flickered: Shockwave had just wholly switched his spark-frequency to his real one, flaring his EM-field wide open, pulsing heatwaves towards his Lord, who, confused, knelt down to face the heliformer from up close, fusion cannon still zimming.

  


“…is that _you_???”

  


Shockwave was a _proper_ mech and protocol-kept his head down, expanding his EM field once more, allowing it to lightly brush into Megatron's, who responded back unconsciously. The tyrant rolled an unseen word in his mouthplates.

  


“I am grateful you can still recognise my true spark frequency and my call for aid after those four millions of years of faithful service and _longing_ distance, My Lord.”

  


Megatron nodded, powering his cannon off, coming to a distasteful conclusion.

  


“So the _Shockwave_ on Cybertron….”

  


“My _sparkless_ shell was converted into a substitute drone.”

  


Torn between being _glad_ the monumental _failure_ on Cybertron wasn’t _him_ , and being _mad_ that Shockwave actually _deceived_ him into thinking the stupid drone was a maddened version of himself, Megatron just stared, finally sighing and walking behind him, releasing him off his bonds and sitting with him on the ground.

  


“I had stood here _hating_ your struts because of your _stupid_ drone!! I had been _mad_ at his blatant refusal to meet up in person! Soundwave is sparked and had just publicly _threatened_ to search for _anymech else_ to sparkmerge if I, _Megatron_ , don’t comply within the next solar cycle! So _excuse me_ if I am still _mad_ that you just showed up in an unauthorised _autobot_ disguise, flaring a different spark-frequency and expecting to be welcomed back like _this_.”

  


Megatron stared, knowing Shockwave didn’t do things by halves: either he got it _right_ , or _screwed_ it completely, and he braced himself for the worst.

  


Engulfing his Lord in a bottomless stare, without further ceremony, Shockwave offlined his visor, focusing, the hydraulic hiss filling the room, gears whirring as his glass chestplate split in two halves.

  


Megatron, remembering exhibitionism was Soundwave's _thing_ , not Shockwave's, raised one optic ridge: finally, flabbergasted, he took sight of the blinding light filling the room, entwined with the bright blue tone of his well-known cybertronian spark.

  


He couldn't believe it. He unwillingly moved a hand towards the light, stopping and recoiling as bright white tendrils escaped it, trying to entwine with his fingers.

  


“How...???”

  


“It is the final result of my efforts, my Lord. My convoluted plan and chain of events culminated in _this:_ a regenerated half of the Matrix, the _Decepticon’s Matrix_.”

  


Swirling, glowing, humming, the bluish-white crystal oscillated projecting lights on the room and into Megatron's face: the _familiar_ silvery handles rested _fused_ on each side of the internal panels within Shockwave's chest within a jolting and rotating mechanism also holding his sparkchamber in an opposite direction, and his battlemasked face retained an eerie glow as he spoke, anticipating the tyrant's thoughts.

  


“I advise against latching it into your spark, my Liege. It is truly a _parasite_ , leeching onto my own life-force and into my systems. If my Lord wishes to listen, I would be glad to sum up the whole story for you.”

  


Megatron could have an idea on how deeply _compromised_ Shockwave had become to obtain such a fruitful result, nodding and agreeing he had no intention in taking this _Matrix_ away from him, where it seemed so _comfortable_ and _alluring_.

  


Instead of succumbing to the allure of a spark he hadn’t seen or felt for four million years, taking his hands to briefly touch the sides of the still _voluptuous_ chestplates, Megatron finally politely _closed_ the open canopy, knowing he could _wait_ , staring right into his mate’s visor.

  


“Tell me, Shockwave, tell me _everything_. We have the whole night.”


	11. Two is company

The whole night went on and Skywarp and Thundercracker dutifully remained outside of their own room, waiting.

  


What they waited for though not even they knew: they half-expected Megatron to kick out the chewed carcass of the heliformer, half-expected him to kick the _screamer_ ’s corpse instead, half-expected him to drag both by each hand out.

  


That was half an expectation too many, and they were actually _glad_ the moment Starscream’s offline, charred shell, still alive, was thrown out and the door locked back.

  


Quickly VOPing his trine leader to the constructicons and coming back, Skywarp returned in time to see Thundercracker trying to listen from outside the door.

  


“So, anything yet?”

  


Thundercracker shook his head: he could hardly make out the heliformer’s vocoded tone saying words too low to be understood through the almost soundproof door, but it looked clear that Megatron was _listening_.

  


* * *

 

  


“I’m listening.”

  


Shockwave, _still_ sitting cross-legged before Lord Megatron on the ground, both at almost touching distance, nodded, taking a break from speaking: his energon levels had dropped immensely in the hours he had been telling his _Scheherazade_ _Tale_ , since every time he got to a part where Lord Megatron was about to go angry and exasperated at his mistakes and errors (especially the moment he had _sunk_ the Nemesis down by being a _terrible_ shoot), he _flared_ his EM-field carefully into a neutrally calming stance, to keep his Lord rational and logical enough to understand his steps without attempting to chastise him before he could finish speaking.

  


So far it had been working, but at the price of a lot of _spark_ energy, he pondered as his HUD warned him of critically low energon levels. Ordering an override and diverting power to the critical systems, he finally excused himself, slumping ahead while still sitting cross-legged, resting for an instant against his Lord’s own chestplates, finally collapsing down.

  


 

* * *

  


  


Collapsed down, Starscream, on a berth at the repair bay, still charred yet freshly awoken hours and hours after being _shot_ , mused on his own life as Bonecrusher, under Hook's orders, hammered a few dents out of his outer plates.

  


He was furious at his stupid, idiotic leader. He had probably taken his prisoner away! He was so incompetent he couldn't even get a prisoner of his own, no, he had to steal from his second in command!

  


He was as furious as the day that 'Nightbird' appeared and the tyrant had threatened to replace him anytime: Megatron deserved getting punched in the face back then.

  


Not that Starscream was in any way _jealous._ No way. Angry, yes, but jealous is something _Soundwave_ does, not Starscream.

  


Soundwave is a very dangerous, sly, insidious glitch, and he shuddered thinking on ever being _under_ Soundwave's bad optic. No matter how tempted he might have been _once_ about the strength and power commanded by Megatron, Starscream was much better off as _second_ in command and leader of his Trine, not as secondary _mate_ (or worse, tertiary mate), and for an instant he _almost_ pitied Shockwave, asking himself where Skywarp and Thundercracker were.

  


* * *

  


 

Skywarp and Thundercracker, still waiting before their room’s door, jumped in a startle as the grey features of _Lord_ Megatron stepped out, holding the offline heliformer over his shoulder like a sack of bolts, walking unceremoniously away from there through the base towards his Office, uncaring if anyone had seen him.

  


Letting the offline heliformer slumped on the floor there, he left the place to gather energon cubes, soon returning with three: he would never hear the end of the story if Shockwave didn’t wake up.

  


Kneeling down, Megatron held the unconscious form, tilting his head back, trying to locate an outer intake at the base of the chin, unable to find any from where he could drop the energon, then sadly remembering it was Soundwave who had the convenient chin intake.

  


Soundwave he had been currently publicly _shamed_ by, with his _threat_.

  


Snarling at the memory, recalling Shockwave didn’t do anything by halves, he squinted and located a disguised intake at the base of the neck, remembering fondly it was very similar (and probably even as _sensitive_ ) as the one in his original purple frame, smirking widely.

  


Popping the lid open with a thumb and taking a deep glare down Shockwave’s exposed furcula, he slowly proceeded into _refuelling_ him _, relieved_.

  


* * *

 

  


Relieved of duty by a very sober First Aid, summoned to base by a commandeering Prime, Ratchet awoke in a terrible mood.

  


Not recalling how the frag he got so over-energised, staring sheepishly at First Aid shaking his head at his not-so-hidden high-grade stash, Ratchet snorted loudly.

  


Observing the pained expression in his Field and Rescue Surgeon, Ratchet quickly dismissed it with a wave of his hand, slurring he had never been so fine and that First Aid shouldn’t have bothered to come.

  


At that, First Aid, in an unexpected display, threw the still half-filled high-grade cube on the wall, shattering it in a tiny explosion, _cursing_ for once their _Prime_ and making sure to place the CMO under forced recharge.

  


* * *

 

  


Out of forced recharge, Shockwave blinked his visor to life, noticing his head being cradled by no one less than _his Lord_.

  


“Finally, you are back. Looks like without me to bring you cubes, you are _always_ faded to starve.”

  


Shockwave nodded: more than once in the past, in Cybertron, he had held the base and its routines, while his Lord raided and fought, and would always be eagerly waiting the energon.

  


Amazing how some things never change.

  


“Estate your energon levels.”

  


“83,5%” He reviewed his inner databanks. “I presume my Lord was responsible for keeping me out of stasis lock and of bringing me back. I am grateful.”

  


Megatron nodded, swirling the cube's energon in hands, slowly, just before his sight.

  


“Then you should be even more grateful for the last half of the cube.”

  


“I always am, my Liege. Always.”

  


Megatron stared with very mixed feelings about the obvious disconnect between what he saw (an anonymous autobot-blue visor and a generic battlemasked face) with the EM-field (Shockwave, his Tower Guardian!) underneath his hands, missing more than he _should_ the giant single optic and the finials in his purple head.

  


As such, shaking his head off the shell overseeing Cybertron aeons-light away, and activating his own EM-field, Megatron allowed it to brush in large streams against Shockwave's, then reached the white intake, opening it and finally pouring the rest of the cube in.

  


Deactivating his visor and turning his vocoder temporarily off, Shockwave focused on the physical sensation of being painfully tank full, without a single hint of emotion or regret for how he had decided placing his intake.

  


Even though he could have allowed his mouthpiece to be accessible, he found it practical to install the outer intake, not much dissimilar to the one in his own ancient cybertronian body.

  


Keeping the intake was not only logical, it was _familiar,_ as much as _his Lord_ holding his head and pouring him fuel could be, just like old times.

  


“100%” He spoke, Megatron stopping immediately, looking at the last droplets on the border of the cube. “It is more than sufficient.” he blinked his visor off, stating matter-of-factly. “It has been a too long time, _my Lord_.”

  


Shockwave crackled static, visor glowing with complete charge. He knew he should by now be standing up, since he was full and functional, but he was trapped under his Lord's gaze and EM-field. Megatron made sure to drip the last few drops into the already full intake, releasing the cube and staring intently at him, finally nodding.

  


Wordless, Shockwave arched his neck backwards, as Megatron angled his face, fitting his own mouthpiece over the base of his neck, slowly lapping the excess energon off the intake, whispering that it had been a too long time indeed.

  


* * *

 

  


A too long time passed before Soundwave could finally try drifting into recharge. He had the equivalent of a _phantom limb_ feeling in the back of his telepathy, a feeling he couldn't blame on anything he knew that was happening on his life.

  


If he weren't already feeling so _chronically_ under-energised recently, no matter how much he refuelled, he might have gone on a stroll.

  


He had actually been expecting Lord Megatron to storm in, furious at his audacity, ready to _punish_ him for even _thinking_ he could order the Decepticon Lord and Leader around, and _this_ was a mental image currently filling his lubricious thoughts.

  


Pity his creations didn’t seem to share his _expectation_.

  


“ _Ewww, Sounders, gross!_ _”_

  


“ _Some of us are trying to recharge without fluxes!”_

  


Soundwave glowered at the ceiling as Rumble and Frenzy, from within his tapedeck, complained. He opened the _eject_ button, expelling the grumbling tapes out, while keeping his laying position.

  


“Cassetticons: go recharge outside.” he pointed to the door with his left hand, as Rumble gaped, unbelieving.

  


“Ow boss, I was just meaning you could spare us of the _imagery_ and...”

  


The finger pointed out of the door, as the other cassettes remained dutifully silent: no one wanted to leave. Resigned, the twins grumbled out.

  


* * *

 

  


“OUT!! Get OUT!!”

  


Starscream was unceremoniously discharged, still lacking cosmetic repair, out of the constructicon’s bay, by the decepticon CMO.

  


Tired of getting exploded, belittled, shot at, Starscream, feeling specially rebellious and in the mood to demote his leader, went to Megatron's office, intent in getting satisfaction: the tyrant had stolen _his_ prisoner and he wanted at least _recognition_ at the capture!

  


He stopped before the closed door, ready to kick it open, the moment searing light seeped through its undersides.

  


Scratching his head, he faltered as another pulse shone through. And another. And another. In rapidly growing succession, coming in waves.

  


_Oh, Primus._

  


He focused, listening to the tell-tale snarls followed by a barely muffled _vocoder_ , and got away from the door, stepping backwards as if it were cursed.

  


Megatron was inside and by the look of it was with Soundwave!

  


Starscream panicked then, all fight leaving his systems: he might pick fights with Megatron, but if someone wants to remain _online_ , one doesn't _mess_ with Soundwave. Talk about an obsessive _, vindictive glitch._

  


Turning on his thrusters, he nearly managed to leave the corridor, as the light show coming from underneath the door continued, slamming right into a blue wall.

  


A moving, tall, broad and battlemasked blue wall.

  


“Soundwave??”

  


He quickly stared between Soundwave and the door, as a final burst of blinding _light_ filled the corridor, and winced: once he opened one optic to look at the telepath, he gulped.

  


The blue tapedeck was stock still, visor offline, a subsonic _dirge_ of dread and _hatred_ spreading from himself both from his speakers and his own spark's EM-field.

  


Stalling his air intakes, Starscream decided leaving the premises, to never return: he had no intention of intruding in anything, specially NOT in Megatron fragging or not fragging the _masked_ autobot, whoever he was, on top of his already messed up bond to his two other officers (he was so glad for not being part of it!). Maybe if he tip-toed away he would...

  


A sudden blue hand grabbed him by his neck, yanking him up. He twitched one optic on, looking right at Soundwave's impassive visor.

  


“I don't know anything! I was just passing! I'm stupid! I'm stupid!”

  


“Starscream: optic witness. Your _presence_ : required.”

  


“What? No! I'm second in command, I command you! You let me free you dolt!!!”

  


Another glare from Soundwave: Starscream protected his audials, as the blue officer readied his shoulder blaster to _shoot._

  


* * *

 

 

  


Shot blasting through the door, Megatron barely had time to protect his own face and audials as Shockwave clung to his frame, face buried in his now closed chestplate.

  


Once the dust started settling, the unmistakable gleam of a single red visor shone through the particles still afloat, heavy steps coming through.

  


The daggers of Soundwave's EM-field spiked through Megatron's, effectively incapacitating him for a while, as the telepath threw Starscream on one corner, stepped closer, then yanked the white helicopter out of Megatron's loose grasp, raising him to the level of his optics, a single datacable flailing out to meet his face, an inch too close, charge crackling through its feelers, ready to _plunge_.

  


Before he could order the autobot to identify or even nullify his mind through telepathic rape, no questions needed, he was met by a flickering, _known_ EM-field, stopping.

  


No.

  


EM-fields do not lie, Soundwave rolled in his vocoder.

  


And he never forgot an EM-field.

  


Especially _not_ this one.

  


Mustering all the self-control he could, Soundwave placed the white mech on the ground, almost politely, staring down at him. Starscream, witnessing something he would rather _not,_ did his best to remain inconspicuous, as Megatron facepalmed on the background.

  


“Soundwave.”

  


“Shockwave.”

  


If whiplash could kill, Starscream would be a floating depolarised spark drifting into time and space heading for Ancient Earth, possessing a buzzing insect _predacon_ shell.

  


_Shockwave???_

  


Optics wide, Starscream eyed again and again the white mech, rubbing his optics then staring yet again.

  


Soundwave raked his visor up and down the heliformer, then raked Megatron similarly, then finally raked _Shockwave_ back, _snatching_ him out of Lord Megatron’s reach.

  


“Soundwave: requesting sparkmate for _mandatory_ sparkmerge.”

  


Shockwave stared slowly between both, as Megatron smirked widely, suddenly yanking the _scientist_ back to himself.

  


“No, Soundwave, I recall you said you’d look for another mech to sparkmerge with _after_ I failed meeting your needs within the next 24 hours of the solar cycle.”

  


Stopping stock still, Soundwave got very mute.

  


“So, according to your own _deadline_ , technically, the sun was going down when you said so, and I still have until _the next sunset._ ”

  


Shockwave, humming, nodded, agreeing it was very logical, as Lord Megatron, smug, held him even closer.

  


“Right now, _Shockwave_ seems infinitely more appealing than _you_.”

  


Starscream couldn’t believe his optics: he didn’t know if he felt amazed or disgusted to see these two actually _having a screaming match_ for the right to _frag_ Shockwave first.

  


“Soundwave: caring carrier. Asking it for the newspark’s development. Needs it _more_.”

  


Soundwave pulled Shockwave to himself, as Megatron captured him back through an arm, snarling possessively, out of rational arguments, the tapedeck flaring his own EM-field in clear annoyance.

  


Shockwave, being many times thrown back and forth between them like a ping-pong ball, finally stalled between both, extending one arm at each of them and keeping his distance.

  


“This illogical behaviour is not conductive to a solution and since you cannot behave logically I _will._ ”

  


He puffed his chest up, hands clasped behind his back, assuming a rigid military stance, totally unfazed. Starscream, unwilling to remain as the _fourth_ wheel between those _loons_ , was slowly attempting to crawl out of there.

  


Megatron, recalling he was the _Leader_ and _Lord_ of the Decepticons, was about to protest the attempt of _command_ , the instant Shockwave turned to him, dipping his head in a respectful bow.

  


“My Liege, sparkmate and bonded Lord Megatron, I am aware I owe you a _full_ companionable night since before we left Cybertron, when I refused being with you, to put my _plan_ into motion. I offer to repay it back now, if you will _have_ me.”

  


He dipped his head down then, humbly, knowing his Lord wasn’t yet _done_ with him and had already agreed with hungry optics and a smirk, finally turning to Soundwave.

  


“Sparkmate and bonded Soundwave. I am logically aware you require _a very through and complete_ sparkmerge for a healthy newspark development. After my _time_ with _our Lord_ , still within your _deadline_ , either Lord Megatron will be up for proper _spark_ merge, or I will, and I add I shall comply with my _part_ whenever needed, within reason. Is that acceptable, Soundwave?”

  


Soundwave, seeing no fault in the argument, nodded. Starscream, seeing _Mr Logic_ in action, had a difficult time believing his optics, as Megatron smiled darkly, amusement in his plates, eyeing the heliformer _deeply_.

  


Finally, turning to leave and making sure he would grab the surprised Starscream by his neck and drag him on his way out, knowing he may have lost the _round_ but not the match, Soundwave decided he wasn’t going to insist this time, leaving the Office to his _sparkmates_ should they wish to remain there the end of the night.

  


* * *

 

  


Having rested through the night, slowly onlining his optics, comfortably tucked on his own berth, Ratchet blinked as he took on his surroundings, focusing instantly on the white battlemask and blue visor boring into him.

  


“…are you back?”

  


First Aid shook his head, coiling back his own medical cable.

  


“I’m positive I’m not the mech you mean, but yes, I took a break from my break and will return to my Protectobots as soon as you are fine _._ The Prime summoned me once word got to him that his _Chief_ Medical Officer was stasis-locked on the medbay surrounded by a stash of high-grade. I had to fight off mechs trying to steal it, but since I had your wrench on me, I was fine.”

  


Grumbling, Ratchet sat on the berth, and First Aid joined him.

  


“By the way, I stored the high-grade somewhere else after sending a sample to Prowl: he wanted to confiscate it all, so I gave him some telling it was everything left. I’m not giving it back to you though...”

  


Ratchet _glowered_ at him, as he fidgeted with his hands.

  


“… I mean, as your _physician_ , I say you can’t go on with this high-grade _problem_ just because the Prime _refused_ to rescue him.”

  


Ratchet groaned, massaging his helm’s temples: he didn’t have a high-grade _problem_ – he had a high-grade _solution_.

  


The only _problem_ he currently had was The Prime actively making his life _difficult._


	12. Three is a crowd

Soundwave’s life was getting _difficult_.

  


He had come from his obviously ineffectual and pointless _recharge_ , kicking the cassettes out of their slots early, his mind whirring awake even as the cassetticons had slumbered all through the night.

  


He knew he shouldn’t need to be jealous, but he was: he was used to Shockwave taking secondary role in their lives, not to the purple _wonder_ actually getting _favoured_ by Lord Megatron, even if he knew it was mostly out of _spite_.

  


Hindsight is 20∕20, and had he any idea Shockwave was around (and what the _frag_ was he doing in that shell?) he would never have threatened Megatron publicly in a desperate attempt to get a sparkmerge.

  


In thinking it was because of _himself_ that Megatron took on their second mate.

  


Soundwave loved spying and controlling, blackmailing, and meddling from behind, as he pretended not to care being around. Every time a raid happened, on the occasions as only mate, he was left behind – to be protected from harm, as Megatron insisted – as everyone went and came, and he hated not being around the life of the faction: he felt coddled, locked. He felt fragile, and he wasn't a fragile mech.

  


He had been a gladiator too, for Primus sake, heavy armour, tentacled datacables, and all, and he _had_ to divert Megatron's obsession in sparing and protecting him.

  


If he could make his leader take his overbearing, _siring,_ control-freakish attentions elsewhere, so not to be smothered, it would be great.

  


As such, back then, he did implant telepathic digits suggesting that Megatron took on a second mate.

  


Unfortunately Soundwave had not been specific and the gunformer had begun taking interest in Starscream!

  


That would be unacceptable.

  


Soundwave was glad the tyrant never acted beyond trashing the seeker around, shooting him, blaming him for everything wrong in the Universe, and being so enamoured with guilt that he even made the Prince of Vos his second in command – which was actually _how_ Soundwave lost his position from SIC to TIC.

  


Before a _royal_ came into play and dethroned himself from Megatron's personal life as well, considering his own humble origins in old Polyhex, Soundwave had to act once more, implanting another telepathic suggestion, this time much more specific and tailored to Soundwave's own wants and needs.

  


Afterall he hated _housekeeping_ , and he still _lusted_ over purple.

  


That was how Shockwave and his Tower fell into equation.

  


He was attractive, an ancient warframe, a classical beauty, upper class enough to hold a nobility appeal, polished, educated, intelligent and above anything, cold, and already involved in the Cause in a high position of command as Chief Science Officer, a science caste mech with a too big attachment to his own labs and experiments.

  


Soundwave knew it would take very little effort from Megatron into making Senator Shockwave _a good, tame, house-bound and obedient mate._ Strong, intelligent yet naive Shockwave stood no chance to the master manipulator.

  


Which led them where they were now.

  


Logically, grateful for being chosen, Shockwave accepted the conditions the polybondic union entailed, which suited Soundwave to the T.

  


Megatron's will had to be heeded, first and foremost, within reason. He also had to obey the first mate's orders, within reason.

  


He had to stay behind whenever the decepticons left to any endeavour or raid, and keep tabs on administrative issues, stock and distribution.

  


The second mate had the right to refuse Megatron's or Soundwave's presence whenever wished.

  


If the first mate refused his Lord, then the second could request extra rounds. And vice-versa.

  


It worked very well so far, specially because Shockwave was rarely requested in the berth by his lord and also rarely requested their presence, except during the million years he actively tried getting sparked.

  


By means of telepathy Soundwave usually knew when Megatron had need of _company_ , and made sure to _be there_ , first, greedy as _frag_ : he was an active, _very_ fertile and proud _carrier-host, w_ hich also explained why and how Soundwave managed to get sparked four times, once with his quite troublesome twins.

  


The sacrifices I take.

  


Remembering one way or another he would engage into sparkmerge later, recalling how he had _prepared_ Shockwave’s room the previous night, before heading to his useless attempt of recharge, Soundwave stood up, deciding it was time to top his fuel, going to the Mess Hall.

  


* * *

 

  


At the Mess Hall, all the decepticons stopped on their tracks the moment _Strongarm_ strode in, regally, heli-paddles rotating slowly on his back.

  


As his _Matrix_ hummed _content_ after a very _eventful_ night, random spark pulses reaching his EM-field in irregular waves he purposefully held at bay tightly, taking mental note to analyse it later after refuelling, Shockwave strolled by, detachedly pondering on how he loathed crowds, especially when they keep _staring_ : it unsettled his logic. He looked down his protruding chestplate into his two forearms, both now bearing the purple decepticon symbol, wondering how some things never change.

  


Megatron had just broadcasted from his quarters, to where they had gone after leaving the Office, to the entire base that Shockwave had come all the way from Cybertron and was in a new shell, no details included, and was to be treated _accordingly_.

  


So there he was, making sure his own energy levels wouldn't drop below 50%, being the talk of the morning.

  


So engrossed he was on controlling his own EM-field and sticking his metallic straw into the cube, plugging the soft end into his neck's feeding intake and turning on his pedes to find a pace to sit, that he never noticed the moment the _number one_ came in.

  


Chin held high, as if he owned the place – which in a way he _did –_ in his controlled yet fluid pace, Soundwave made sure to promenade the hall, hips swaying, buttons gleaming in the light, taking the attention of the crowd, generating an empty cube from his dock and filling it from the energon dispenser, finally taking it to face, at his chin intake, ingesting it.

  


Right before his _bondmate_.

  


Both eyed themselves, positions mimicked, similar consumption rate. The decepticons, a very non-subtle bunch of ill-behaved grunts, started gossiping low, which only served to delight Soundwave and deeply confuse Shockwave.

  


Not that he was going to show he felt conflicted, he thought as he gave a slight deferential bow to the main _mate_ of the house, excusing himself to a table.

  


“Soundwave: invites Shockwave over.”

  


He waved his hand to a small empty table. It would be impolite and unreasonable to refuse, so Shockwave nodded along and went, regulating his feeding straw to go slowly, as he took a second cube from the wall, and Soundwave took three more.

  


From the corner of his optic, Hook kept tabs on the duo, extremely curious on a near morbid level to see how the ménage would go: he also had a thing for unusual fuel intakes, and theirs were certainly exquisite.

  


The things he could do with them, or their lack of thereof.

  


It was common knowledge that Soundwave never removed his battlemask in public. There was even a betting pool on whether he had or not a real face underneath.

  


Some theorised there was a true artificial vocoder, right where should have been his real mouthpiece, ripped out during his time as gladiator in Kaon, before he and Megatron started the Decepticons.

  


The milder facial trauma version believes he still had a mouthpiece, yet mangled, scarred and barely functional. The dull face verse believed a commonplace face, hidden out of self-consciousness and lack of ability to conceal one's facial expressions, and the wish to not expose himself.

  


Others even swore there was an exquisite low-class polyhexian beauty underneath, slanted golden optics, smooth faceplates, luscious lips, and that he only showed and used them with their leader.

  


There was even one small group believing the _big_ secret was the fact Soundwave was indeed the last female, the last living decepticon representative of _Solus Prime from before the start of the war_ , having cleverly undergone a full _upgrade_ into the boxy, strong, big, battlemasked and visored frame of the ex-gladiator, and his known carrier-host status might be a disguise for his _natural_ fertility.

  


What everyone really knew, envious, though was that he had _free_ refilling rights, due to being a _carrier_ , responsible for six recharging cassettes most of the time, and also Megatron's first _mate_.

  


Hook observed unashamedly Soundwave’s rippling intake cable going down his neck, tantalisingly leading the taken energon down, as his visor flicked off, neck bent backwards, hips strutted, in what could only be absolute bliss.

  


Turning his sight onto Shockwave, refuelling through his traditional straw, Hook visually scooped the new shell for telling scratches and the occasional forgotten dried fluid streak, finding none: Shockwave was known for not caring about what people thought, sometimes simply not removing _evidence_ away.

  


This time however everything seemed clean.

  


Hook’s visual medical scanners told him all the information available on Shockwave’s new shell: smirking behind his own cube, he was _delighted_ to take notes on the fact that his scanners located not one but _two_ interfacing panels.

  


Lord Megatron didn’t waste time on reclaiming Shockwave’s old array in his new frame: the _original_ double-purpose panel was currently under an automated self-cleaning cycle after having been purged off the trans-electrical fluid (and wouldn’t that be a sight Hook would have liked to see); the other, the single-port one, probably originally belonged to the autobot corpse and was factory-sealed (what wouldn’t he give to just plain claim it) _medically_ locked away.

  


Sipping on his energon, he squinted as he took sight of Soundwave’s core temperature rising slowly as he contemplated the white heliformer, unable to stop wondering, now their trinebond was complete, when the tapedeck would finally accomplish his _threat_ and simply jump the heliformer into sparkmerge, idly wondering he wouldn’t mind having a seat at _watching_.

  


“Soundwave: will make arrangements to get Shockwave a new lab.”

  


Shockwave blinked: he wasn't expecting to be offered a Lab so soon, although it was _logical_ : shifting minutely in his seat, paddles rotating counter-clockwise slowly, unaware of Hook’s and half the fleet’s lucubrations on what he and the tapedeck would be doing in the next hours, he replied.

  


“That is very kind of you.”

  


Soundwave nodded once.

  


“Will vouch for Shockwave.” he finished the first cube, getting to the other “Megatron: always glad to have a Science Division running.”

  


Shockwave nodded more: much like with his _Lord_ , it was never good to be on Soundwave's bad side, but sometimes it wasn't _good_ to be on his good side either. There had to be another edge in there. He was waiting for the other pede to drop.

  


“Shockwave: superior base-keeping skills. Will better keep stock. New lab: will further the Decepticon Cause. Megatron: ultimately pleased. Soundwave: pleased Megatron is pleased.”

  


Ah, there it was. Now Shockwave knew where he stood. On both sides, their agreement remained fundamentally the same. He could finally relax.

  


“Curiosity: time with autobots, eventful? No friends left _behind_?”

  


Soundwave attempting small talk? Mouthpieces sputtered energon, heads turned on the mess hall, and anonymous voices rose to slightly higher than a grumble.

  


Shockwave clipped on his flexible tube, manually pausing the intake of energon, the mental image of the scowling autobot CMO hitting him on the chevron with his wrench filling his processors.

  


“Friendship is extremely illogical.” he gave a not-answer and unclipped the tube, resuming his feeding.

  


Soundwave nodded, having tried to no avail to pry into Shockwave's shadowplayed mind and spark. As he suspected, the Council at the Institute did worse than damage his emotional circuits, and remove his hands, his face and most of the function in his interface array: they destroyed forever part of his spark, making his mind absolutely unreadable, no matter if he took on a new shell or not.

  


Pity. No blackmail material then. Even inducing the potential recollection of stray feelings was not enough to make them readable, and as he bitterly digested the info, he eagerly gulped another cube, his neck rippling as the fuel came down.

  


“Shockwave: your return, greatly appreciated. Come: personally prepared your own _dependences_.”

  


Shockwave corrected his posture, going military stance and marching one step behind his _superior_ bondmate, both heeding a cube each in hands, followed by _hungry_ optics out of the mess hall.

  


* * *

 

  


Out to the mess hall, hungry, Ratchet caught his energon cube, refuelling, being intensely observed by the Autobot’s preferred spy.

  


Jazz, lounging on a sofa, couldn’t help squinting at the CMO, who he knew, had a nervous breakdown at the disappearance of the junior medical officer under decepticon hands.

  


Having himself received orders from the SIC to plot a discreet, sensitive, _rescue_ plan to snatch Strongarm out of the decepticons, under the guise of him being even more _dangerous_ out of Prowl’s sight, Jazz took to spark his mission: if he did it right, he might even return to Prowl’s good graces and not only be allowed to court him, but also increase his chances to succeed: it might be slow, but it would be as flawless as Prowl’s aft and as perfect as their future _bonding_ should be, pondered Jazz as he detachedly rested his own _aft_ in perfect disregard.

  


* * *

 

  


Detachedly resting his wide aft in perfect wait, half-laid over his right side in the geometric centre of the berth with his right hand’s knuckles holding his head under his chin, disregarding propriety, Shockwave knew enough of Soundwave’s tastes to know what to expect the instant he was invited in to see his brave new room.

  


If it weren’t _Shockwave_ sitting, no, _lounging_ there, one might speculate he could be almost _enjoying_ being at the berth, contemplating the infinitely _superior_ room he was granted by his bondmate – as opposed to the _storage closet_ the Prime handed him, according the CMO’s own words.

  


Private washracks, dim purple lighting from the walls, a desk with a strong light spot where he could tinker with minor projects, the purple memory mesh covering the otherwise austere standard berth, nicely contrasting with the whites and blues of his autobot shell.

  


He had to most definitely reward his bondmate for almost _reading_ his thoughts and having impeccable taste.

  


Dimming his visor as he would have his single optic back then, silently, he outstretched his left arm, palm up, towards the tapedeck, crooking the left index slowly towards himself, very much aware of how this particular _beckoning_ affected his bondmate every time he actually used it, glad he had charted every single session and could orchestrate any event to perfection.

  


Receiving a definite unashamed _lick_ in his EM-field, Shockwave turned inwards to find that surprisingly it didn’t come from Soundwave, having instead originated from _his_ _Matrix_.

  


_Interesting_.

  


Finally allowing his own EM-field loose, it moved out of his plating in large irregular waves, rippling against Soundwave’s own, nearly stalling the tapedeck in his steps: already dizzy from the _little menace_ orbiting his spark, Soundwave made sure to steel himself against the nearest wall, as both fields mingled and Shockwave recognised the influence of the _intruder_ , dipping his head in a nod as his own _Matrix_ hummed in complete approval, his spark pulsing in double waves now.

  


“Sparkmate and bondmate Soundwave. I am aware you require for the sake of the newspark a through sparkmerge. I shall comply. I am here in spark and array, ready to _serve_. I expect you do not mind that I will chart and analyse our session later in my personal archives for betterment and future improvement.”

  


Soundwave sighed: long ago he gave up on _subtle_ around Shockwave, having gotten used to his to-the-point displays and comments. The most difficult part was to know that to get _anything_ across his emotionally-damaged sparkmate, he would always need to be as direct and unromantic as possible.

  


Nodding in silent reply, anticipating Shockwave’s calculated EM-field _touch_ , Soundwave finally sat at the corner of the berth, facing his bondmate, unable to _help_ the nagging feeling that he was being _observed_ , as the parasitic Matrix whirred around her own axis.

  


Aware of his bonded’s need for physical touch, Shockwave unceremoniously displayed his double-purpose purple array, his useless and unfeeling interface cable slotted and locked out of sight, his pinkish-purple port clean, calibrated, and most importantly, already running under programmed lubrication, a bead of pinkish fluid forming and pooling on the lower end of the port, his left hand’s index touching it and sliding the lubrication up and back _inside_ the folds, slowly.

  


“I anticipate you might be appalled by the recognition of my original array. Our Lord was, too. I expect you will appreciate my effort as much as _he_ did, once he was past the initial shock.”

 

Soundwave couldn’t divert his gaze, slightly disturbed at the morbidity of the array _transfer_ , unsurprised however, since _yes, this is something Shockwave would do:_ nodding as he felt his own interface cable starting to pressurise underneath his plating and his own core temperature rising, Soundwave moved closer to the middle of the berth, in one single move _possessively_ placing his hands on each side of Shockwave’s hips, mechandling him from a lounging to a _straddling_ position, both now sitting face to face.

  


Staring unfazed at the navy blue hands weighting down with a vice grip on his hips, Shockwave dimmed his visor and jolted his own hands over Soundwave’s, firmly gripping them in a calculated move, flaring his medical heaters on, approaching the tapedeck’s audials.

  


“You have nice, strong hands. I expect to be taken.”

  


“Soundwave: _superior_.” the tapedeck _purred_ at the rare compliment.

  


Feeling for the welcome resonance, the white mech revved his engines in tandem, transmitting vibration through his bonded’s frame, as Soundwave, in a single move, unlocked and opened his own interface array, navy-blue interface cable slowly slotting out of its casing as it pressurised, moving both hands to grasp Shockwave’s very _solid_ aft and sliding him closer until both exposed arrays touched and the heliformer completed the move by locking himself in position with both feet behind Soundwave’s back.

  


“I strongly suggest that you remove my paddles without leaving our position: they will be in the way.”

  


Soundwave tilted his head, heat flushing up his faceplates underneath the battlemask, as his bonded purposefully _ground_ against his interface _cable_ , pressurising it further; briefly staring at the paddles sticking from Shockwave’s back like a sore wound, the tapedeck recovered from the heatwave and removed both hands from the heliformer’s aft.

  


Slowly, by trial and error, he managed to take away the first, second and even the third paddle with some semblance of civility, getting mercilessly teased by a series of _grinds_ in time with the attempts of removal; by the time he reached the fourth, as Shockwave not only ground his hips but also slid his port’s _generously_ lubricated entrance up and down at the underside of a fully pressurised _spike_ , Soundwave ripped the last paddle out and swung it across the room, throwing it out of reach as a now _very_ revved Shockwave contemplated the rotating paddle slowing down its move on the ground.

  


_Excellent_.

  


Before he could drone or comment on anything, though, he was instantly flung from his straddling position into laying on his back with a thud, Soundwave throwing all his weight in between the widespread thighs, interface cable’s underside fitting exactly between the purple folds, a film of pink lubricant flowing from within, effectively locking Shockwave in place as the tapedeck reconfigured his inner docks so they would remain inside as his sparkchamber jolted into place from underneath his deck, only waiting for a command to come out of the glass door.

  


Satisfied with the result of his calculated physical moves, extremely ready, Shockwave, chestplates closed, having _listened_ to his bonded’s dock reconfiguration, jolted his Decepticon Matrix down to open space for his own sparkchamber to stay right behind the glass plates too, ready for exposure.

  


“Your eagerness is _stimulating_. I am _dripping wet_ and my cockpit glass plates _itch_ to open. Interfacing has become mandatory.”

  


Soundwave _growled_ in response: Shockwave reinforced the lock command into his autobot interface panel, the blue pliant folds pleading, begging to be filled by such a strong mech, then finally sliding his hips up into the exact position where the tip of Soundwave’s cable met the entrance of his purple folds, stalling for three full seconds, then in one single move he jolted his hips down, engulfing the pressurised spike in a brutish motion, as his own sight faded to white for a microsecond and the tapedeck nearly overloaded then and there, finally his glass dock opening wide and revealing his old, abused spark.

  


Observing with a detached glare Soundwave’s very blue, ancient, visibly scarred spark (from being split many times into sparking), Shockwave focused at the visible spinning orb attached to its field.

  


“I see your creation is healthily spinning in eights, full of vitality as usually all your newsparks are, bondmate Soundwave. Congratulations.”

  


Soundwave nodded non-committally; even though he required the sparkmerges for the newspark, he was too _eager_ to do it for his own sake right now to remember about his creation much less to be congratulated.

  


“Shockwave: talks too much. Open up chestplates and expose spark now.”

  


Shockwave nodded, offlining his visor and splitting his own plates, sparkchamber coming out, walls rotating around and releasing his spark away, an arrhythmic flicker of light glowing from within its blue core, as Soundwave dimmed his own visor and slowly finished sheathing himself to the hilt within the purple port.

  


Finally in close contact, under a languid motion, sparks slowly orbiting one around the other, taking his preferred _role_ on his back, Shockwave at last turned off his upper processors and logic systems, running himself on automated routines, revelling in the crudely primeval, purely physical sensations of getting painfully _port_ _-_ full.

  


Face down into the crook of Shockwave’s neck, Soundwave kept his battlemask resolutely closed, as usual, nuzzling their faceplated battlemasks and shells in an almost catlike rub of bodies, sensitive medical fingers finding nooks and seams of transformation, as four dark blue datacables flailed out and connected to the Nemesis through the ceiling by their feelers, biolights pulsing as they drained raw energy from the ship.

  


Soundwave’s hands traced the protruding chestplate, moving down the ventral plates, pinkish fluids dripping from the sides of Shockwave’s purple array over the berth at each slide in and out, the occasional droplets seeping through the locked autobot array as well, electricity crackling and building charge from the rotating sparks meeting between the joined plates.

  


Had Shockwave not _locked_ out his upper processor to avoid trying to _analyse_ the event, being currently focused on mechanically performing for the sake of his bondmate, he might have retained enough processing power to notice something was amiss.

  


If Soundwave, on his side, weren't also enraptured, if he weren't obsessively cataloguing for future reference the corners and sensibilities of Shockwave's new shell, wishing deep down he were still his old purple self, if he weren't currently enjoying himself a bit too much, he would have also noticed something was _wrong_.


	13. Solus Prime

_Something had been wrong from the start._

 

The incorporeal entity that had one day been Solus Prime, now unevenly split and only with partial consciousness, will and ability to interfere in her own fate, being hosted by that _stranger_ and not knowing where her other half was, scanned for the spark of Optimus Prime: seeking for her missing parts, she stretched her tendrils into her host’s systems and spark for clues, any clues.

 

Shockwave. He isn’t and would never be a Prime. How dare anyone have put her in conjux with a non-Prime?

 

Analysing the situation with a cold non-existent optic, she pulsed, having been momentarily awoken by the extra raw energy flowing through the entwined shells, virtual faceplates heating at the bout of vigorous interfacing.

 

Recalling Optimus Prime, who had been bonded to a female autobot and had no option _but_ take on the active role, she felt instantly _aroused_ that this _Shockwave_  was honouring herself by actively wanting to be in the receptive role.

 

When was the last time she herself, on her own body, ever interfaced anyway?

 

Smirking, for now not minding who her host was, _Solus Prime_ made sure to rotate the jolting mechanism and hiding from sight, overriding with a flicker of spark Shockwave’s medical locks, took the best backseat to watch.

 

Shockwave’s sparkchamber got immediately exposed to the open air, the _Matrix_ humming content: Millennia surviving in between Prime’s shells, as a prized possession, can turn anyone into a _voyeur._

 

Before she tried experimenting with the navy-blue mech’s plates, his warm shell thrusting mercilessly into her host, _she_ observed very interested that his chestplate locks unmade themselves without her needing to meddle with, which turned out to be excellent, for now both sparks were exposed and rotating in between their chests.

 

The _Matrix_ nodded to herself: long ago she determined there had to be a _newspark_ in the Future, and there they were.

 

 _Two_.

 

One was older and thriving, come from an experienced creator, rotating around its host _._

 

The other was _too damn young_ , having been just generated maybe hours ago, from a physically strong spark whose damaged sparkchamber could not house it, forcing it into a perfectly healthy sparkchamber around a medically _ill_ spark that could not sustain it.

 

A recipe for failure that probably repeated itself a few times in the past, considering the two microscopic scars surrounding the medically damaged spark. From their size, they probably never lived past their first minutes or hours, and its host probably never realised they were even there in first place.

 

As such, feeling for the very irregular waves, knowing the tiny newspark was already fading from improper _hosting_ , she pondered on what to do next.

 

She currently had limitations _._ She lacked the vessel of the Prime's knowledge, these databanks having remained with her split half. She wasn't the key to independent creation in herself, having also lost these abilities to her other half.

 

She wasn't _whole_ _enough_ to create Life anymore. Before being unevenly and crudely _split_ , she could create Life and mature it almost instantly, releasing newsparks completely at will, given she had the _sources_ from where to take data to create them, often working in tandem with the archives within Vector Sigma as the entity one day known as Solus Prime.

 

In her current unevenly split state, all the power she truly retained rested in one single act: in her single-mindedness, only being remotely capable of interfering with a natural sparking event _if_ a newspark was already generated to start with, having been specially powered by the extra energy source of the four datacables coming from the blue mech, having no power otherwise and aware this same set of circumstances might not repeat itself any soon, her decision was done.

 

Nothing more precious than new life.

 

She would boost both up with this extra-power: she didn't know when there might be another opportunity with so much energy available, she pondered as she slowly returned to slumber, one last thought in mind.

  

Let there be Light.


	14. Let there be Light

Light filled Megatron’s mind as he stalled at the control room, a mute pang in his own spark, followed by a spreading warmth through his interface array, legs going weak and glad he was sitting.

 

Ravage, sitting on his feet, shifted, raised his head, looked around, got patted on his head by a black hand, then purred and laid back, tail entwined in his _master'_ s Megatron leg _._

 

Starscream, right beside them, finding the exchange strange, raised one optic ridge, wondering if...

 

“Is there anything wrong, _Starscream_?”

 

Yeah, that was what he was going to ask, fleeting a glance at Megatron's minutely _squirming_ thighs.

 

“Nothing, my liege, a quite uneventful day. I had news though that our _newcomer_ and our TIC left together the mess hall.”

 

Taking Ravage in his lap to conceal his minute trembling, Megatron nodded, hiding a smirk. That explained _it_ then.

 

The seeker shook his head, sneering at his leader, finally asking for permission to take a reconnaissance flight with his trinemates. Megatron, carefully petting Ravage behind his ears, very pleased with life as it was now, dismissed him with nothing more than a grunt.

 

* * *

 

Grunting, Soundwave came back online with a crackle of charge rippling through his shell, alarms ringing on his systems.

 

He had the experience. He knew.

 

It wasn't supposed to start now. He had still at least a hundred years to go: it was just too early!

 

Shockwave, stirring to life and sitting by his side, idly held his ventral plates closed, humidity pooling between his legs.

 

“Shockwave: anything _wrong_?”

 

Blinking dark his visor, Shockwave searched his own systems, _stopping_ , very still.

 

Processors whirring slowly as charge crackled through, Shockwave analysed thrice his databanks, making sure he was calculating things right.

 

He couldn’t make a mistake, not on such a grave matter. It required further clarification.

 

“Soundwave. Allow me a moment of uncertainty and questioning: what could be the chance that your creation latched onto _me_ instead of remaining with you after our sparkmerge?”

 

At that, Soundwave stalled: his creation was currently fine, dandy and very _ready_ as it rotated around his own spark in a full binary system, experience telling him that it was triggering his _Release Protocols._

 

Before Shockwave’ current _conflict_ , Soundwave squinted underneath his visor, releasing one single datacable and latching its feelers right over Shockwave’s cockpit glass plates, _pinging_.

 

Receiving _two_ definite _pings_ back, Soundwave nodded, in between awed and scared, recoiling the cable back.

 

Shockwave not only was _sparked_ , but his own _newspark_ was also triggering release protocols and unless he was wrong, experience told him both would be getting finally released within the next solar cycle, maybe even together.

 

Very aware that his own creation wasn’t due for centuries still, and that they even weren’t awake time enough on Earth for Shockwave to be sparked from _anymech else_ to be _releasing_ right now, he was at a loss about why everything was happening like this. The math wasn’t adding.

 

“Shockwave: has _rational_ explanation?”

 

Slowly turning his visor towards his own cockpit glass, in between scientifically fascinated and morbidly curious to open his own plates and just _see_ for himself, the only thing that this time was really different was…

 

“The parasitical _Matrix._ It must be somehow its doing. _Fascinating._ ”

 

It was neither logical nor rational, but it was the only thing that made any sense. Shockwave furthered his analysis using his medical sensors, already creating a new databank for future reference and charting in to scientific work.

 

“Main pain receptors flaring with excess charge.” he gave no external indication of feeling anything “Medical scans show newspark at 96% maturity, Release Protocols activated in phase one of presentation, expected release time within one solar cycle.”

 

Soundwave nodded, smug at how _experience_ served him right and he truly required no scanners. So he _was_ right.

 

“Query: Since when?”

 

“According to medical systems readings, the newspark had been generated in my last _merge_ with Lord Megatron, and was releasing irregular energy waves compatible with early spontaneous termination of which I was not consciously aware due to the low intensity of the initial newspark charge. My medical logs further register that its abnormal development took place through excessive charge and input, come from your datacables channelled through my _alien_ source, presumably the parasitical Decepticon Matrix.”

 

Soundwave stared, impressed, dipping his head in a nod.

 

“Soundwave: understands parasitical Matrix brought _solution_ to Shockwave’s infertility. Enquiry: Shockwave, _happy_?”

 

Shockwave glared at the tapedeck, blankly: he was indeed mighty surprised of being sparked, was amazed that it involved the _Matrix_ herself, was collecting data to a start a personal databank, but couldn’t decide if he was feeling anything else beyond scientific fascination and personal pride about it.

 

Certainly, as obviously pointed by his bondmate, _logic_ dictated that the Decepticon Matrix was the source of the solution to his ancient _problem_ , not to mention it was horrifically _fast_. He would certainly study this entity once his condition was resolved. The new lab would come in handy. His creation would be another asset to the cause, maybe even assist in the lab.

 

Before anything though, he would have to make sure the newspark actually survived.

 

“Happiness is an illogical concept.”

 

Soundwave minutely shook his head, once more failing to glimpse a single stray feeling out of his bondmate, as Shockwave stood up and headed to the desk, storing a few datapads into subspace, _remembering._

 

Objectively, he knew how to proceed now: he had been _there_ all the times a new cassette came to life.

 

Talking on the little pests...

 

“Sounders!!!”

 

The tapedeck was smothered by four cassettes, namely his twins and his avians; they were all requesting to recharge into the deck. Ratbat was timidly perching atop his shoulder, also requesting to be let in. Making a defeated stance, Soundwave clicked open his eject button, allowing them all in.

 

Shockwave stared at the familial exchange, an unspoken question in the air. Soundwave tilted his head.

 

“Shockwave might understand when Shockwave finally releases.”

 

Without data to compare to, he nodded, taking Soundwave's word at spark, returning to his objective worries: they would need suitable shells. Medical aid. Working T-cogs. Soundwave, making sure the cassettes were recharging silently, spoke.

 

“Time: of the essence. Soundwave: has no shell planed for newspark yet. Lord Megatron’s suggestion: flight-moded. Owns abandoned prototypes for flight frames with the Constructicons and may lend Shockwave one.”

 

Logically, pondered Shockwave, who for a second failed to imagine his own creation housed into a cassetticon-sized shell, deciding to refuse the aid.

 

“Very well then. I shall procure my own shell for my creation. It is advisable that the medbay is ready within the day. Do your part, I will be worried with mine.”

 

Soundwave then put a hand in his shoulder. Shockwave stared.

 

“Soundwave: soft spark for creations. Has gone through it all before. Always had Shockwave's aid. Will aid Shockwave now. Transform and open door.”

 

Shockwave, since the argument sounded logical, dirty from interfacing but ignoring the dripping fluids from between his seams, transformed, opening one of his doors, as Soundwave converted to tapedeck mode, shifting mass and fitting inside the canopy over the control panel at one of the few dry and clean inner surfaces, undecided if he felt disgusted or excited at the prospect of his bondmate walking around displaying _his_ claim, finally physically connecting through a navy blue, articulated datacable resembling a tentacle, into Shockwave's systems.

 

The duo lifted off, manoeuvring out of the room and going through the corridors, taking the undersea base's lift.

 

After travelling for hours, trying to remain hidden and inconspicuous as they reached shore and the nearest city nearby, they located an out-of-town junk-yard, where Shockwave’s _unsanitary_ frame quickly acquired dirt over the fluids, becoming truly disgusting very soon, dust mingling with the oils and liquids as Soundwave kicked dejectedly an old washing-machine.

 

“Junkyard: full of junk.”

 

As if Shockwave expected anything less, he mused as he turned a few pieces around, discarding them.

 

“Logically old fridges, stoves and sofas will not provide an appropriate alternate mode. It might have been better to foray into a Hospital Ward. Computerised Tomography, Magnetic Resonance, even X-ray machinery would prove much more fascinating.”

 

Soundwave searched more, taking hold of a huge 80's broken TV equipment, grabbing a camera from the pile, holding it up facing his own visor, Shakespearesquely, staring longingly.

 

* * *

 

Staring longingly at his currently aching hands, Ratchet was very aware that in less than a few centuries he might need a new set if the workload among the autobots did not subside any soon.

 

Sensors, scalpels, everything was screaming _replacement parts_ in his servos, painfully reminding him of _Strongarm_ trying to clean and calibrate them, and currently only served the purpose of fuelling this stupid, idiotic wish of undergoing a self-appointed mission to rescue his assistant.

 

“Heya, mech, how y’re doing?”

 

Ratchet’s slow, murderous glare did not shut up the TIC, who kept speaking.

 

“Cheer up! Sit with us.”

 

Ignoring his own life was under potential danger, Jazz placed a hand over Ratchet’s shoulder’s and steered him into a sitting position towards an apparently empty table except for Wheeljack and a floating set of cards.

 

_What?_

 

Jolting his optics to the floating deck of cards, Ratchet squinted as the disembodied voice of _Mirage_ spoke him a hello and started distributing the cards between Jazz, himself and a clueless Wheeljack, snatched to the table after he was merely passing by.

 

 

* * *

  

 

Merely passing by was the understatement of the century as the five green and purple towering constructicons stomped around the decepticon underbase, screaming for...

 

“SCAAAAAAAAAVENGER!!!” screeched Scrapper.

 

“C'mon, you don't need to hide just because we made fun of you!!” highlighted Hook.

 

“We all love you!!” bellowed Bonecrusher.

 

Stalling suddenly, Mixmaster widened his optics, turning a grim glare at Scrapper, who facepalmed and shook his head, all the constructicons sharing a single thought, instantly knowing to where their _little bonded_ left.

 

* * *

 

 

The two bonded left the scrapyard, unceremoniously stomping over the escaping crowd, twin energon crackles flowing through their carrying bodies in almost unison: blinking his visor, Shockwave simply dug his hand through the glass panels of a computer store, extracting the hardware off exposition and handing the broken materials off to Soundwave, who tilted his head right, squinting his optics underneath his visor at the carnage.

 

“Shockwave: damaging computers. Query: has lost his mind?”

 

Handing him another handful of broken and twisted metal, Shockwave gave him a sparkless glare, droning.

 

“Crude raw components and wiring to craft upper processors will be needed for the construction of my creation’s body.”

 

Shaking his head, and pondering that Shockwave’s poor choice of raw materials was _not_ his particular problem, since he had a few half-decent backup shells for his own newspark already, Soundwave merely subspaced the _scraps_ as his bonded kept damaging LED monitors and gamer’s CPUs before handing them with complete lack of care.

 

As Shockwave carelessly collected items, digging his arm through the glass, breaking one more panel, the salesman, staring helpless and defenceless from within, saw his only chance to escape against those huge _evil robots_ into the shop’s sliding guillotine door, activating it, the very instant Shockwave fit his left arm in.

 

* * *

 

 

Left arm getting suddenly and cleanly sawed off by the door, energon sizzling out through the wound, wiring fizzling with static and buzzing with the pre-release charge, Shockwave stepped back and manually clamped the wound, crushing the line closed, not a single sound getting emitted or a single shift in EM-field taking place.

 

Horrified at the unexpected event, a slow crackle of charge arching electricity from his head towards his shoulder blaster, Soundwave turned his battlemask between the unfazed heliformer and the now closed door, readying himself to blast it to pieces, the moment Shockwave spoke.

 

“Your intent in revenging me is admirable, but do not waste energy and time. We have other shops to raid on the other side of the street.”

 

And turned on his heels, going for the other open shops, raising dust with his heavy steps, the ground starting to shake.

 

* * *

 

 

The ground suddenly started to shake: The floating set of cards, which had been just placed on the table, spread on the ground! The autobots tried to hold onto their chairs!! In a sudden, the soil of the base begun to crack, and from the hole there appeared...

 

“I did it!!! Yeah!!”

 

Scavenger pranced in a _victory dance,_ ready to plunge back into the hole, being however tackled mid-air by no one less than a very _mean_ Prowl _._

 

“Not so fast, decepticon... you have just infringed the construction security rules by digging an unauthorised tunnel without proper security equipment. Why?”

 

Scavenger stared at the four autobots surrounding him.

 

“Because Mixmaster asked me to see if I could dig a hole that ended up at the autobot base?”

 

Prowl blinked. Scavenger nodded.

 

“Why.”

 

“Because I was sad and he tried to cheer me up by asking me to do something I’m really good at?”

 

“…like digging holes.”

 

Scavenger nodded further, happy: he was so glad someone understood him, even if it was an autobot. He wormed himself close to the autobot SIC, lowering himself and nuzzling his face against his shoulder, almost _purring_.

 

“If you ever one day change sides, you could become our Honorary Constructicon, wouldn’t it be neat???”

 

In between _horrified_ at the idea, and calculating the chances that such an absurd notion might ever take place, Prowl suddenly _flipped_ the already flipped table on the ground right into Scavenger’s head, knocking him offline in a single move.

 

Ratchet, until then dumbfounded by the full display, snapped awake.

 

“Oh, just great, you fanatical zealot, now I can't ask him about my _junior medical officer_!”

 

Prowl snorted, puffing up his chestplates, doorwings twitching.

 

“Look who is calling me fanatical. I am not the one sitting around looking at my own _hands_ and _moping._ ”

 

At that Ratchet jumped on Prowl and both begun to catfight on the ground, the medic digging fingertips in painful seams and nipping on his doorwings, as the SIC yelped and futilely threatened with time in the brig and a dozen lectures from Prime, catfighting on the ground, Ratchet getting locked in a _hook_.

 

* * *

 

Hook locked sight into Prowl, as the other four constructicons readied themselves for fight, all come from the hole Scavenger had crawled from.

 

Sharing a bond with Scavenger, they knew very well _who_ hurt their little bondmate, and went all for Prowl’s _aft_ , piling atop him and punching him as Ratchet crawled out, coughing dust and gears, searching for somewhere to hide.

 

The autobots, surprised at the attack, _stared_ , as Jazz screeched that no one touched Prowl’s _aft_ but himself, jumping together in the mess, and the distant _whine_ of the autobot SIC growled that not even _Jazz_ would touch his aft and that he would better quit _trying_.

 

Wheeljack, blinking, scratched his side panels as Scavenger slowly came back to life, shaking his head and running to the insides of the autobot HQ.

 

Immediately breaking fight and honing into their bondmate, the constructicons abandoned the place, leaving a Jazz fully sprawled under Prowl’s straddling self, gleefully groping his aft.

 

Giving his TIC his best _scowl_ , Prowl slapped the offending hands out of his behind, immediately handed Jazz another _fine_ , and outraged, commed Inferno, Ironhide and Red Alert, the last like-minded mecha around, intent into capturing the Constructicons no matter the price, _promenading_ away.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Promenading_ away the down-town, Soundwave and Shockwave unceremoniously collected pieces of hardware that might be useful as alt-mode.

 

As the humans screeched, Soundwave disrupted the traffic, making sure to stomp as he walked, collecting the newest pieces of human technology available into subspace, as the decepticon’s scientist only apparent regret was the fact they wouldn’t have time to reach and grab any equipment within a proper Science Lab.

 

* * *

 

 

At the Science Lab in the Autobot base, Perceptor opens the door and faces a smiling Scavenger. The constructicon looks around, then at him.

 

“Hi! Did you know I managed to dig a hole from the decepticon base until here??? I'll tell you how it was..”

 

Perceptor stared blankly at him as he spoke for ten minutes.

 

“...so I destroyed a couple of underground traffic tunnels and water pipes on my way here...”

 

Perceptor gave him a flat glare. Scavenger spoke for more 10 minutes.

 

“...then those humans on the subway started to scream..”

 

Perceptor looked around, twitching his left optic. Five minutes later...

 

“.. and then KABLOOOOIE!!... but when I got to the system of..”

 

Perceptor looked at Scavenger, scratched his head, stared around, pinched himself to make sure he was really awake, and stood up, opening the door of the lab.

 

Staring outside blankly, he saw the five maddened constructicons; opening a huge grin, he threw himself in Scrapper’s feet.

 

“Please. Take him away. If he says just one more thing I’ll hang a _disco-globe_ in the ceiling and start to dance.”

 

The five constructicons shared a smirk. Scrapper screamed for Scavenger.

 

“Hey, Scav!! Tell us once more about your last vacations! For Science!”

 

* * *

 

 

 

“For Science.”

 

Ramhorn nods. Blaster sighs.

 

“You shouldn’t have to change who you are for anything but yourself. Getting a triplechanging mode? For the sake of having opposable thumbs and speech? Are you talking too much with Wheeljack by any means?”

 

Ramhorn first nods, then nods, then shakes his head, then nods and nods again. Blaster scratches his head.

 

“Look. I don’t care that you aren’t sired by Ironhide. Actually, I might happen to like you even more.”

 

Ramhorn raised an optic ridge.

 

“Right, I agree he never treated you badly, but c’mon, 5 millions of years without a single shanix of support? Isn’t it a bit too negligent?”

 

Ramhorn pouted, raising one inquisitive optic.

 

“Who, if not him? I wish I knew. I was out overcharged. It’s not like I’m going around demanding that every autobot gets scanned for me to find out. Of course, Ironhide is to blame. If he were more often around, I wouldn’t have thrown that party and…”

 

Ramhorn sagged.

 

“…of course that’s not what I meant. I don’t regret having _you_ , I just wished things hadn’t gone bad between Ironhide and I. Of course, they did and because of that you exist, and...”

 

Ramhorn looked just plain _hurt_ then.

 

“… and I’m making an aft of myself, aren’t I.”

 

Ramhorn nodded meekly, then approached Blaster’s legs, nuzzling against him, as the tapedeck caught him in arms.

 

“I love you too, little lug. Now come back to dock! No cleaning the chainguns when inside.”

 

Ramhorn nods, almost gleefully, pinging Blaster once more. Sighing, oblivious to the _Hell_ being raised around the base, Blaster told him that yes, he didn’t mind him getting properly tutored and making Science at the Lab, as Ramhorn actually dreamed of getting modified and becoming the battlemasks of duty.

 

* * *

 

 

The battlemasks of duty, Shockwave and Soundwave started experimenting even closer energon crackling charges, as the tapedeck shook his head, putting an end to the collection of pieces.

 

“Shockwave: release incoming. Risk of post-release overload imminent. Crippling event: Not advisable outside secure area.”

 

Shockwave didn’t react, still unsatisfied at the amount of the pieces collected by Soundwave, but rationally knowing he would have to do without, even if it meant getting the newspark into a frozen stasis-sparkchamber and delaying the body for later: It was illogical to keep exposing themselves outside like this.

 

The post-release overload was crippling, as he recalled from Soundwave’s deliveries, leaving the carrier vulnerable afterwards.

 

Even without an arm, having mechanically compressed the energon link and effectively prevented his drainage to deactivation, knowing his left arm transformed into the left underside and door of his alt-mode, calculating it wouldn’t endanger flight, Shockwave transformed and allowed Soundwave in.

 

With grime and dirt caked into the scientist’s fluid-stricken panels, the tapedeck’s tentacled datacables latched onto his circuitry, as Shockwave's rotors whooshed wind in a circle around them, his swaying hook and chain oscillating as they as they attempted to get out of sight...

 

* * *

 

 

Megatron's sight faltered as once more he felt one ripple of distant dulled pain through his shell. He had no idea on what was triggering the pain, since as far as he knew everything was just fine in his Decepticon Kingdom.

 

All he knew was it was getting stronger by the hour.

 

The moment Ravage winced and actually stared at him pleadingly, was the moment an old sense of _dread_ filled his spark.

 

He recognised this pain.

 

It belonged to Soundwave. And it wasn’t yet _time._ And if Soundwave was already releasing...

 

Punching his comm, he had only one single order to his Second in Command and his Trine.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Starscream's trine dove into a smoke-filled commotion on the ground, only to find Shockwave landcrashed on a side, smothered by screaming humans, as Soundwave's cassette player form remained thrown in a pile on the ground, buzzing static.

 

The human mob however got silent and then started to scream as they saw the three seekers land and transform. Thundercracker growled and shot randomly, making sure all humans would storm away, and Skywarp tapped on Shockwave's cockpit, signalling him to transform.

 

“You dolts, what do you think you two _love-birds_ are doing??” shouted Starscream.

 

“Acquiring construction material, logically.”

 

Starscream looked down at Shockwave, who was now in root mode and lacking his left arm, completely _disgusting_ with what clearly looked like congealed grime-caked transfluid seeping through his plates, his own lubricants still dripping from between his legs.

 

“Have no one told you should have _washed_??? Why parading this _thing_ around?? Does everyone _need_ to see Megatron’s and Soundwave’s _fluids_ sticking out of you like this???”

 

Shockwave looked down.

 

“Actually, Starscream, it is not our _Lord_ ’s transfluid, only my bondmate Soundwave’s. I expect you wouldn’t know the difference however, not being _used_ , but I shall enlighten you anyway: if you pay attention closely you may see that Soundwave’s transfluid tends towards gelled when solidifying, slightly bluish in its tint, bearing a concentration of cybertronium that…”

 

Starscream _eeked_ , waving both hands in the air in full revulsion, as Shockwave stopped talking to such an under-appreciative audience, uncaring to the jet’s opinion, idly pondering he would miss the medical apparatus within his sliced off left arm and that he would appreciate it returned.

 

“I had no time for something as _frivolous_ as washing Soundwave’s fluids off, in face of the imminent extinction of my creation due to lack of a body. Apropos, we are getting out of time, _subcommander._ ”

 

As charge crackled through Shockwave's shell, and the transformation-locked tapedeck was placed within Thundercracker's cockpit, Skywarp looked around, held hands with his trine and Shockwave, and everyone VOPed away to security.

 

* * *

 

 

Security was the word of the day, as Red Alert debriefed every single autobot individually, taking notes of where they were when everything happened, trying to find the breech that allowed _Scavenger_ to come through and wreak havoc on the autobot base, the Constructicons and the decepticons currently being to _blame_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Who else were you expecting me to _blame_???”

 

Shockwave, strapped into one slab, still awfully filthy, shoulder leaks recently welded yet not patched, merely stared upwards. Hook was an emotional creature, and could not understand he had no need of praise, nor could be affected by irony.

 

“I expected nothing but to be released from these straps.”

 

“Released! You and Soundwave only made our life difficult, and I’m not even talking about that _ooze_ emanating from you. How are we supposed to take him from tapedeck mode when he's unconscious?”

 

Hook pointed to the _tiny_ blue tapedeck connected to life support on the other slab. Shockwave, unfazed by offense, droned to the ceiling.

 

“If you were a proper medic you would know. Release me so I might medically connect to him and override his transformation.”

 

“So I'm not a proper medic? Listen here, it's not that simple, _junkion_ _wannabe_. He mass-shifts. He has a myriad of hidden tentacled datacables, a stationary alt, and a wingless flight mechanism with antigravs in root mode. His subspace is full of junk. He has currently five recharging cassettes in. I have no idea how he keeps track of this whole _mess_ inside because he is so paranoid, he fragging _deleted_ all his blueprints and invasive data from the whole cybertronian databanks, and anyone trying to get in will face his freaking firewalls while tatting around his streams of data. If you get this wrong we might end up with his innards out flailing like a flying spaghetti monster and a cluster of floating sparks. No medic can do!”

 

“Unquestionably, as Chief Science Officer, I am more _resourceful_ than the commonplace medic. I have experimented on millions of sparks. I am the Creator of the _cortical psychic patch_. Furthermore, I _know_ Soundwave's internals _intimately_ , and as _sparkbonded_ I can override his firewalls. I am familiar with his _idiosyncrasies_.”

 

Shockwave almost felt something akin to satisfaction at making Hook _sneer_ at the idea of _anyone_ being more capable than the perfectionist CMO.

 

“And I _also_ know he's carrying a spark ready to be released. Logically, I am your best medical option available.”

 

Hook widened his optics. It was _not_ supposed to be due for a _very long time still_ , and they didn’t even have a good body ready, the best option so far being a _bee_ leftover prototype from the time Soundwave couldn’t decide on repeating the condor theme or taking a new one for _Buzzsaw_ : talking through his bond to his team, he made sure Soundwave’s newspark would have the backup shell to fall to.

 

“Very well then, _Commander Chief Science Officer_. It will be on you if Soundwave offlines.”

 

The restraints were removed, as Shockwave stood up, a goblet of congealed transfluid flopping down into the ground, sloshing itself on a radius and almost reaching Hook’s feet; another rippling charge coursed through Shockwave’s frame and crackled on his exposed shoulder, as he opened Soundwave's tapedeck back panel, took hold of his purple medical cable with his current only available hand and connected it there.

 

Vision tunnelling, Shockwave held himself against the slab where his bondmate laid, HUD filling with all kinds of medical info, revealing a screen with two pulsing spark frequencies: after a microsecond scientifically fascinated by it, he split the screen and dove into Soundwave's systems, shuffling through data in an orderly yet hurried fashion.

 

It wasn't leisurely invasion and hacking: he had no time to enjoy the procedure, as endless streams of data flowed through his vision, being selectively ignored and thrown behind.

 

On the outside of Shockwave's mind, Hook stared dumbfounded and slightly disgusted as Soundwave's subspace released a freaking huge amount of what he considered _junk_ pieces.

 

“Constructicon Chemist Mixmaster.” Shockwave spoke, his visor split between the HUD and the outside world “Take heed of these pieces and proceed into manufacturing a _juvenile_ shell for a newspark.”

 

Hook scoffed, flickering his fingers in the air, trying his best to prove to Shockwave that he personally esteemed the tapedeck more, as Scrapper caught the cassette-sized frost chamber where the bee prototype was.

 

“Looks like we already have this one covered up, _commander_ _._ ”

 

Shockwave nodded, totally unfazed by the comment.

 

“Indeed, but the shell I requested is not for Soundwave.” one more crackle came through his shell, lighting come from within his own seams. “I would have produced it myself if I had time. As it happens, I am also carrying my own creation.”

 

Hook gaped. _Shockwave the Sterile_ , sparked?

 

Realisation dawned then on the constructicons, as Hook imagined all the implications for his team in case they failed Megatron's other bondmate and lost their leader’s co-creation.

 

With quick and rude gestures, Hook pointed to the pieces and to Mixmaster, who saluted, contemplated the full spectra of computer pieces on the ground, and after a while, incapable of making a choice, just plain placed _all pieces_ in his drum, vehicle-moding right besides Shockwave, beginning to shake, stuttering that he needed a source of cybertronium.

 

As hell broke loose around and the constructicons searched futilely for ready-to-use cybertronium in liquid form, Shockwave just calmly dipped his head down, following with his visor another drop of semi-congealed transfluid coming from his panels.

 

Nodding at his own brilliance, uncaring for people’s reactions, Shockwave just plain opened his main interface array and manually removed with his one hand the _congealed, dribbling sample_ _of_ _transfluid_ from inside, into large chunks, just plain throwing it inside the shaking chemist’s drum.

 

As Scavenger tilted his head to take a better angle at the sight his favourite commander _Shockwave_ was unashamedly providing and the other root-moded decepticons just plain _stared_ , Mixmaster suddenly stalled, his drum stopping to shake, the whole mess inside sloshing itself down with a blurt in its final rotation, as silence reigned in the room and all heads turned to Shockwave, only now manually closing the offending array.

 

“I expect the source of cybertronium will be sufficient to the execution of the project.”

 

Ignoring the shocked decepticons and going back into the split HUD within his systems, diving further and plunging into the depths of Soundwave's databanks, Shockwave’s whole mind rippled altogether with the tapedeck's subspace and his mass-shifting transformation sequence: emergency stasis threatened his own systems, his newspark once more sending pulses irregularly, as the scientist started disconnecting from his bonded.

 

Hook stared at Soundwave's recovering and transforming shell, as Shockwave's visor went off and he fell on his face on the ground, purple medical cable straining and finally disconnecting from the tapedeck, one last ripple of charge filling the helicopter's body before unconsciousness took place.

 

In one move, after hesitating for a second before touching the _soiled_ heliformer, Hook laid Shockwave's shell on the slab, connecting his own medical cable into his patient.

 

Overriding his chestplate locks, he nearly broke them open, staring for a full second at the parasitical _structure_ dominating his innards, focusing on his medical data-flux, finally finding how to jolt the _object_ downwards, making room for the exposure of his spark chamber, where a fully mature _binary_ system of sparks rotated one around the other, behind its walls.

 

“Constructicons!!” he yelled, his own HUD split in half “Everyone knows what to do!! Mixmaster, are you done already???”

 

Without questioning, the gestalt team started working as one, Mixmaster shaking on a corner, Scrapper and Longhaul taking over Soundwave's slowly recovering self, Bonecrusher coming to Hook's aid.

 

Their teamwork was so neatly connected that the moment Megatron tried getting into the medbay with Ravage in tow, Scavenger, on his self-imposed guard duty, immediately prevented him of coming in.

 

* * *

 

Coming inside the medbay, Ratchet had just evaded Red Alert’s Brigade and Prowl’s Inquisition, very aware that Optimus was angrily walking around the base lecturing mechs, making sure to safe himself in, just trying to keep _out_ of _his_ way.

 

* * *

 

 

“Keep out of my way you insolent, I want to come in.”

 

“Hook said no one comes in.” Scavenger shook his head.

 

“Well, obviously he wasn't meaning _me_.”

 

Megatron attempted to get inside the constructicon bay, as from inside Hook's voice booms, saying that _Yes, it included him._

 

Megatron grimaces, as Scavenger fidgets with his hands, looking at him.

 

“Scavenger. I know Starscream brought my _two_ bonded here, and I want to get in.” he growled, EM-field flaring menacingly.

 

At that insistent EM-field, Soundwave, finally awake, struggling to keep track of his own release system, prevented Scrapper of putting him under, removing his own life-support connections and standing up: he takes immense pleasure in being conscious and _kicking_ at each of his deliveries.

 

Basic _carrier-host_ pride.

 

Besides, Megatron was outside, attempting to invade the bay.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Outside the medbay, ready to smash Scavenger to a pulp, Megatron suddenly stopped the instant Soundwave came into view, arms folded.

 

Before Megatron stepped inside, the blue decepticon stepped outside.

 

“Soundwave, what do you think you are doing??”

 

“Soundwave: requires Megatron to remain outside.”

 

He tried closing the door: Megatron prevented him.

 

“I demand to be present! Isn’t it too soon? Do you confirm you are _releasing_???”

 

“Affirmative. Soundwave: will explain later: should be busy for now.”

 

Unceremoniously then, Soundwave closed and locked the door into Megatron's nose.

 

Dumbstruck for a moment, the tyrant finally broke into an angry fit, shooting randomly the first anonymous decepticons that happened to stroll down the hall.

 

Before he could blast the door open, however, the medbay's door hung open and Ratbat, Rumble, Frenzy, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw had been kicked out by Soundwave.

 

Megatron, trying to no avail to talk to Soundwave, barely avoided getting smothered by the five, now six cassettes: the tapedeck ignored him completely and re-entered the room.

 

Finally, counting to ten, he glowered down at the cassettes.

 

“Good, my favourite spies. Be good to your _master_ , and tell me, what's wrong with Soundwave?”

 

They shared a glance, remaining mute. Megatron patted Rumble's head.

 

“So, Rumble, my favourite...”

 

Ravage growled: _he_ thought he was the favourite! Personally offended, he turned his back on the tyrant, licking his paws and hissing. Rumble, barely avoiding cringing, turned one single open optic to Megatron.

 

“Favourite?” he scratched his head “Oh! If ya think so, _dad_ , sure...”

 

Megatron sighed. The cyberbees and the nightbirds.

 

“Yes, Rumble, exactly that _human_ therm. Now, will you answer me?”

 

“Huh.. I guess..”

 

“I'll take that as a yes.” he knelt down, eyeing his co-creation “Why is Soundwave _releasing_ now??”

 

He growled the question, taking crude hold of Rumble’s arm.

 

* * *

 

 

Growling as he took hold of a certain arm, generously delivered to the autobots by a very proud salesman, Optimus Prime unceremoniously chimed his Prime Override at the medbay door, strolling in and honing in a beeline right to Ratchet.

 

“Here. I believe it interests you.”

 

A white left arm bearing a purple medical cross, a decepticon brand, and a plethora of scratches and hanging wires from purple grime-caked inner seams, was unceremoniously thrown into the medic’s lap.

 

Optimus Prime, bitter for having been given a wordless _ultimatum_ by the unusually quiet _Matrix_ concerning the making of a newspark, sneered, currently finding joy into closely watching Ratchet’s gaping face.

 

“I have no use of it, but you might need a _souvenir._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

“I didn’t need this kind of _souvenir_!”

 

Hook shook his head at the grime, disgusted, hovering above Shockwave's open chestplate, holding in hands a spark extractor, slowly guiding a flickering blue newspark out of the binary system it previously occupied besides the host spark, unable to take his optics away from the _mess_ littering the outer plates of the white frame.

 

Shockwave, on his side, locked inside the wonderful world of his own fogged mind, undergoing the release system overload, was making a myriad of plans concerning future experiments in sparking, parasitical matrixes, and on how to easy up the procedure so that a body can come together as part of the deal, never minding his surroundings.

 

Hook, for once glad Shockwave was not paying attention, mind seemingly _away_ elsewhere, turned to Mixmaster, still shaking at the corner of the room.

 

“Is it ready??”

 

Mixmaster is seen spitting out of the drum a dark grey body, almost carbon-grey, twice the size of a regular cassette, instantly root-moding and literally _purging_ his tanks at the memory of Soundwave’s congealed _transfluids_ rolling inside his vehicle mode.

 

Ignoring his disgusted gestaltmate for now and turning his sight to the newspark shell, Hook started the creation’s physical medical file by taking up a full visual analysis of its compounds, wincing as he held the spark-extractor above the closed chestplates.

 

What kind of alt-moded microcomputer-Frankenstein was that?

 

He could certainly _see_ the clear influence of Soundwave’s CNA into the twelve datacables and the unmistakable Shockwave-like single red optic from the camera head: even for decepticon standards, it was an ugly mech. Poor kid would need a psychologist. Or a cosmetic surgeon. Or both.

 

“Was it the best you could come up with?”

 

“Don't compl-plain, I h-had _trans-fl-fluid_ in-t-to my d-drum and te-ten mi-minutes to make it, and-nd it even t-transforms!!”

 

Taking one more peek at the micro-computer mech-shell and its chestplate-screen, he shuddered: the awful _habit_ autobots had of _mixing_ parent’s CNA's to make _combinations_ that were neither useful nor practical was a luxury only the upper class could afford, he pondered as he recalled the _disposables._

 

This _mix_ only served to symbolise that a mech actually _belonged_ to its co-creators: it happened every time a wealthy autobot couple went to Vector Sigma and the Prime, in the Old Times, to request for a newspark.

 

Shaking his head, he nodded silently as through his medical cable he made sure the chestplate-screen scooted open, revealing the empty, open sparkchamber, approaching the fading newspark closer, slowly.

 

Bracing himself from the jolt and the flare of light as the spark was practically _sucked_ inside the geodesical sparkchamber, Hook smirked as the walls rotated one around the other, finally engulfing the blue light inside, darkening as they enveloped the spark behind the glassy screen chestplates and he finally disconnected his medical cable out.

 

“One less to go. Scrapper, make sure it keeps stable while I work on Soundwave now _._ ”

 

Since Hook was the head physician, he was promptly obeyed in the medbay, as much as Scrapper was the _boss_ during any construction project: the pure _medical_ reasons why he started with Shockwave’s creation included the fact that his scanners showed the scientist’s creation was the weakest of the two newsparks, and the one that could wait less to be brought into a proper sparkchamber.

 

It’s not like they were going to _leave it to chance_ to have Megatron’s co-creation deactivate because of presumed neglect _._

 

Besides, now that he was over with Shockwave, he could genuinely dedicate himself to Soundwave, his undisputed _favourite_ between Megatron’s two bonded.

 

Turning to the tapedeck almost reverently, he plugged with a genuine flare of his EM-field into Soundwave’s medical port, pinged for request and permission to interfere, as the blue mech replied with a _positive_ and just plain opened his deck, jolting his sparkchamber outside, _expectantly_ as he rotated its walls and revealed the bluish, scarred spark, and its slightly smaller counterpart revolving around it.

 

* * *

 

 

Revolving around his thoughts, Ratchet blinked at the amputated arm bearing the decepticon insignia in the middle of its forearm, the Prime _smugly_ folding arms and glaring at him with the greatest _I told you so_ face ever.

 

“I suppose that _now_ you are seeing the evidence, you are ready for some _due_ time in the brig, Ratchet.”

 

Ratchet leered: he recalled very well the day the Prime, backed by Prowl, told him in no uncertain terms that he would face the consequences in case Strongarm ever proved to be a liability.

 

“You are not seriously punishing me for an _arm_ bearing the decepticon symbol. As far as we know, he could have been _forced_ into it.”

 

Optimus tilted his head right with a clear _smirk_ in his optics, as Ratchet shook away his oldest memory of _Orion_ moving similarly, albeit coyly, in a wholly different set of circumstances, the day they first shared glances in the Senate from afar.

 

“Decepticons don’t brand slaves: branding is a high _honour_ for them. This brand is proof of Strongarm’s change of spark, or maybe he had always been a decepticon in disguise, which means your medical evaluation _failed_ ; now, are you accepting that you judged _wrong_ the vouch you took for _Strongarm_ , following me into the brig, or will I have to summon Prowl?”

 

Stalling, Ratchet gripped strongly the arm, digging dents in the decepticon-branded forearm: he couldn’t deny Optimus was right in his thinking, and he knew the Prime would lock him, lecture him, and eventually send him out with a shameful reprieve, but _Prowl_ would follow the procedures to the _book_ and eventually court-martial and condemn his excised sparkchamber into spark-prison.

 

So, nodding silently, he gripped firmly the arm, and looking up to the Prime, walked ahead, leaving the medbay behind.

 

* * *

 

 

Behind the medbay doors, Hook had just captured Soundwave’s newspark, taking care to sway the spark-extractor in eights precisely as the spark spun: the last thing he needed was a floating newspark in the medbay.

 

Wordlessly turning towards the bee beastformer cassette shell and linking his medical cable into it, still lacking its final touches and the full communications upgrade, but otherwise with a fully functional sparkchamber and basic bodily functions, he made sure to guide the lively, agitated spark into the open and expectant sparkchamber, nodding satisfied as it smoothly looped in an eight while diving inside and the chamber’s walls closed, engulfing its light.

 

The bee shell immediately flared into life, mesh wings flapping and compound optics going red instantly, a buzz coming from its systems, as it hovered over the slab and Hook nodded, very glad it required no jump-start.

 

Soundwave was most definitely _superior_.

 

Handing Longhaul the spark-extractor, he folded arms, _smugly proud_ at a perfect delivery, turning his face to Soundwave, who nodded back, fully conscious during the procedure, finally offlining his own visor: he was tired, he was _satisfied_ and he was _fragging pleased_ of one more successfully online newspark.

 

Minutely turning his scanners towards the unsettling deathly dark grey shell of Shockwave’s creation as Scrapper gave him the _positive_ , Hook almost sagged in relief as they confirmed Shockwave’s creation was online, although still unconscious.

 

Walking to the mechling’s slab, he glared down to him, intent in hard-resetting his shell and quick-starting the spark into life, unceremoniously freeing his medical port and about to plug in, getting instantly _whacked_ to the side by a white bolt.

 

Blinking and staring at the looming _soiled_ one-armed heliformer, he nearly managed to growl, as Shockwave briefly glared towards the other four constructicons, pulling rank by flaring his EM-field large once and stalling their approach in an attempt to aid their medic, finally turning to Hook back.

 

“Chief Medical Officer Constructicon Hook. I intellectually appreciate the spark-extraction and the successful incorporation, and you can be sure my _Lord_ shall hear of my positive regards about your collective procedure, Gestaltmate Constructicons. I shall take measures from now on, however: I have expected for a newspark of mine in the latest nine millions of years and I will take on any measures to ensure _his_ safety. You shall not plug into him unless expressly allowed. _Microtron_ is _mine._ ”

 

Puffing up then, he merely walked out to his creation’s slab, plugging his _cortical psychic patch_ into the open medical port, selecting the first primary files he intended to install, _starting_.

 

* * *

 

 

Starting to regret his decision of coming almost _voluntarily_ to the brig, Ratchet glowered at the Security Camera, that wouldn’t stop focusing on him as he waited for the cell to be opened and himself thrown in, sitting with his feet stasis-cuffed on a bench in the brig.

 

Finally, taking his wrench from subspace and slowly throwing it against the camera, watching it fall gracelessly to the ground at less than ten centimetres from his own hands, Ratchet growled as the little voice belonging to Red Alert came from the microphones with a perfect, satisfied laughter, then called him a _decepticon sympathiser_ , finally going mute.

 

As soon as Ratchet thought himself safe, the faceplates of Red Alert came inside the room, the Chief Security Officer holding the wrench in hands, weighting it twice up and down, finally leaving back to his Security Room, saying something about confiscating the _evidence_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Evidence. Now.”

 

Optimus sighed, talking via comm to his bonded who had been avoiding him for the latest year.

 

“You know very well I have no physical _evidence_ , Elita. The Matrix had been humming and inwardly wordlessly _threatening_ to bring unto existence a newspark using my databanks and is requesting my _counterpart_. I really hope you to act on your expected role and just plain come here within the next solar cycle.”

 

On the other side of the screen, Elita-1 shook her head.

 

“Don’t make me send for Prowl. He will be very willing to make the _Primeval Laws_ of the Matrix-Bearer and his consorts be fully obeyed.”

 

She snorted, tapping on the table.

 

“Sure, the guardian _dog_ , send him in. Make the first newspark to come through the Matrix in the latest millennia to be fruit of _rape_. What would your autobots say if they found out you are that desperate and that it is the Matrix who controls you, not the opposite?”

 

Optimus stalled.

 

“I am _not_ controlled by The Matrix. I merely follow her sound currently wordless  _suggestions_ to the T.”

 

Elita smiled condescendingly: he gritted his dental plates behind his mask.

 

“Optimus _Prime_ , if you prove you are the one really controlling _The Matrix_ , then I will accept and sparkmerge with you as many times as needed to have the dreaded newspark created, and will make sure to tell everyone I am _happy_ about it. Deal?”

 

Unable to let a challenge like this go, Optimus dipped his head in a battlemasked nod.

 

“If this is how you want it to be, dear _sparkmate Prime Consort_ Elita-1, then so be it. Optimus out.”

 

Screen going black, Elita-1 punched the controls, gritting her dental plates.

 

* * *

 

 

Gritting his dental plates, Prowl opened the Lab’s door.

 

Arms behind his back, staring inside the Lab as _Perceptor_ clearly _pranced_ over the desk, under a flashy 70’s disco-globe full of mirrors, the autobot SIC stared.

 

Prowl most certainly didn’t _want_ to _know._

 

“Perceptor. Cease this suspicious behaviour or I’m afraid I shall take you to the brig.”

 

Pirouetting around his axis and _pulling_ the stoic enforcer up the slab and continuing to dance, Perceptor never noticed the instant _Prowl_ squinted, _grimacing_.

 

* * *

 

 

Grimacing, alone with his thoughts, Ratchet stared down at the white arm in his possession, currently labelled as ‘evidence’.

 

Try as he might, he couldn’t come to terms with the fact that it now bore a decepticon brand, a true brand, not a merely painted symbol.

 

Be rational, Ratchet. _Logical_. _Strongarm_ was never your standard autobot.

 

He could indeed depict his junior medical officer bearing his purple crosses, whirling a chain with a hook attached to the end, unceremoniously rescuing, I mean, capturing test subjects to unethical experiments, hacking them with his purple medical cable from his purplish innards, siphoning energon from the dead, cannibalising corpses for parts, all the while preaching with the speech affectation of a demented scientist and utterly incapable of normal social interaction.

 

_Oh, Primus._

 

How love makes us blind, miserably thought Ratchet, a chunk of his spark getting ripped out.

 

There was no mistake though. _Logic_ dictates Strongarm could only be a decepticon in disguise: unfortunately, Optimus Prime was right. The permanent brand on the white metal proved that.

 

Which decepticon however, he still didn't know.

 

Looking at the arm in his lap, he remembered the _disappeared_ paperweight in the shape of the Matrix, widening his optics, then very slowly slapping his own forehead.

 

 _Strongarm_ was indeed mildly obsessed in making their Prime undergo _medical_ evaluation.

 

What if it had been a plan?

 

What if he had intended all along to steal the Matrix?

 

Widening his optics, recalling the _lost_ paperweight, he came to a terrifying conclusion.

 

 _Strongarm_ _hacked Prime's innards, stole the Matrix... and left the paperweight inside his chest!_

 

He had no evidence to prove it, but to the Well with it: he had to tell the Prime about what he suspected had happened.

 

Looking up to the other security camera from his spot on the bench, he screamed from the top of his vocalisers.

 

“Red Alert! I know you are there! I demand to see Optimus Prime!!”

 

* * *

 

 

Optimus Prime winced, physically holding his chestplates together, as soon as he finished receiving Red Alert’s message that _Ratchet_ wanted to talk to the Prime.

 

“Not a good time.”

 

The Matrix _whined_. Optimus sighed, not sure if he meant it to the Matrix or for Ratchet: looking down his chest, he questioned.

 

“Who controls who here? Who?”

 

The Matrix _smirked_. Optimus clenched his fists.

 

“Quiet you. We know very well who is the boss.”

 

The whirr of gears briefly threatened to open his chestplates against his will, and he suppressed it with a command.

 

“You wouldn’t.”

 

Full laughter came into his inner audials, and he couldn’t help _shuddering_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Shuddering, Perceptor was unceremoniously thrown in the brig alongside the flashy mirrored disco-globe, almost over Ratchet’s lap, already stasis cuffed.

 

The disco-globe also bore a sticker saying ‘evidence’. Prowl started droning through the still open door of the cell.

 

“Obviously it was a ploy of the constructicons to send Scavenger after you to flood your processors with inanities and finally make your logic circuits collapse. After you properly defrag, if we prove this disco globe is not a _liability_ , you are free to go.”

 

Still disentangling from the scientist, Ratchet attempted to stand up, both falling in a slow heap on the ground.

 

“I demand to see the Prime!”

 

Prowl turned an almost soulless stare at Ratchet, who winced, recalling Strongarm’s own _glowers,_ and Prowl’s accurate prediction that his JMO was indeed a liability.

 

Before he could say anything though, Optimus stepped regally inside the brig, staring at the small crowd, as a security camera focused on him, and he nodded in acknowledgement, turning to the CMO.

 

“Red Alert told me you wanted to say something. I’m listening.”

 

Ratchet in-vented, observed by all the autobots, including Perceptor. Better make it quick and blunt, he pondered as he turned to the Prime.

 

“I know where your paperweight is.”

 

_Damn, so much drama for the paperweight! At least someone found it._

 

“Very well then, hand it to me.”

 

“It's already with you. In your chest. Replacing the Matrix.”

 

Everyone made sepulchral silence. Finally, Optimus collapsed in laughter, cackling that this joke was too good to be truth.

 

Ratchet then _lethargically_ unsubspaced his medical surgical laser and pointed it at the Prime.

 

“No it isn't a joke. I know it now. You were right all the time, _old friend_.”

 

Prowl stalled, watching with a flat glare at the laser pointer indolently hovering over Prime’s chestplate. Optimus stepped aside, the laser dot remaining locked where he previously was, slowly beginning to move to him. Perceptor scratched his head, and Ratchet continued.

 

“As you all know already... Strongarm is in truth a decepticon in disguise.”

 

Prowl remained silent, not particularly surprised, already taking measures to make sure _Ratchet_ would get properly court-martialed later. The Prime looked down at his chest, following the slow-motioning laser dot, from the stasis-cuffed medic, that only now managed to reach him again.

 

“Yes, Prime, Strongarm stole the Matrix from you and placed the paperweight inside to replace it.”

 

Optimus raised one optic ridge. Except for _forged medics_ , who also happened to own special sparkchamber slots for ICu emergency care, only Alpha Trion and Shockwave had the technical knowledge to install the Matrix, and those two had been left behind, on Cybertron.

 

Unaware of Optimus' reasoning, as last measure of sanity, Ratchet very slowly rattled the surgical laser at the Prime's chest.

 

“If you have the real Matrix, I want to see you bring _this_...” he very sluggishly caught the disco-globe in his free hand and unhurriedly threw it before the Prime’s feet “...into life as an Autobot by using the Matrix!!”

 

Optimus raised another optic ridge, forgetting his previous trail of thought. Ratchet insisted.

 

“What, can’t you _control_ it? Will you prove I am right and the Matrix had been _stolen_?”

 

Optimus slowly moved a gear up his processors, recalled Elita-1’s accusation that he was controlled by the Matrix, briefly checked on both his SIC, his CSO and the helpless disco globe, as the security camera recorded them with Red Alert behind it, and finally glared at his CMO.

 

“Of course I can control it. I’m the _Prime.”_

 

Prowl nodded, satisfied: Ratchet snorted.

 

“If you _had_ the Matrix, then you might, but as it is, with a _paperweight_ replacing it, I doubt it!!!”

 

Optimus squinted.

 

“This is outrageous.” he gritted on his dental plates “Do you want me to _prove_ it???”

 

Ratchet snapped.

 

“Yes I do! Do you see this fragging _disco globe_ there!? Do it, _Prime_! I want to see you _bring it to life_!”


	15. Bring me to Life

“Are you bringing him to life?”

  


Shockwave absently nodded to Scavenger, currently plugged via _cortical psychic patch_ into his creation Microtron, as the constructicon hummed besides his favourite commander.

  


Shockwave needed to install a series of basic function files into the hardware of the new shell: Mixmaster’s work was flaky at best, and despite the _autobot_ touch of inheriting Soundwave’s CNA and owning a myriad of datacables, he had no other _interesting_ features and literally came online without a single software ready to function, which explained why he did not react or wake up.

  


Either he left his creation to learn from scratch like the stupid autobot _nobility_ preferred to, and in this case he would take _aeons_ to become a useful decepticon, or he would go cold-constructed and install speech, minimal comprehension and logic thought processes, and a pathway to make sure new knowledge would always be incorporated.

  


It would take years for his creation to fully mature, but was still better than the alternative.

  


As Shockwave worked, one-armed, Scavenger on tow, on his side, Megatron, just entered the medbay as soon as Hook told him he could now come, had finished acknowledging Soundwave’s creation, having helped his first mate to stand up, brushing EM-fields and raising a hand up, where their creation landed, buzzing.

  


“So this is the little _menace_. I expect our creation to undergo an upgrade as soon as you devise a superior adult cassetticon body.”

  


Soundwave shook his head.

  


“ _Menace_ : instant incorporation into shell. Full adaptation to insectoid beastformer frame. Requires no change to function.”

  


Megatron raised one optic ridge, glaring at the compound-opticed _bee_. Soundwave continued.

  


“Menace: good decepticon _girl_. _Happy_ with shell as it is.”

  


Megatron smirked: the second decepticon _female_ ever sparked by Soundwave then, just like _Laserbeak_ , the first in millennia since their extinction among the Decepticon ranks with the deaths of Obsidian and Strika.

  


One single _female_ spark from a _male_ carrier was rare enough; two were a high statistical improbability.

  


The more to add to his own awesomeness, thought Megatron as he contemplated the tiny bee.

  


Shifting a glance to the side, Megatron nodded thoughtfully at the sight of Shockwave, currently plugged to his own creation, as focused as an African buffalo licking his calf and watching for lions and hyenas.

  


Having personal experience with a certain furious carrier-host, Megatron made sure to keep his distance: Hook had reported how his second mate tackled him away from _Microtron_ , presumably having entered full-fledged automated _carrier_ protocols, making Shockwave a dangerous _carrier_ to be around until the protectiveness eventually faded a bit and he returned to his usual emotionally flat self.

  


To Soundwave, however, with a healthy spark-to-body connection, sparking was a ride in the park; a new cassette was nothing exactly new. Every couple of millennia Soundwave ends up sparked anyway. Megatron was used to it.

  


The novelty was in how fast Soundwave delivered this one, not to mention _Shockwave_ of all mechs, getting sparked and delivering as well. It had certainly involved the parasitic Matrix, somehow: he had honestly expected it to _never_ happen.

  


Megatron couldn't deny he wasn’t secretly _proud_.

  


Not that he had been left with a _choice_.

  


* * *

 

  


“You don't leave me with a choice.”

  


Optimus Prime offlined his optics and _opened_ his chestplates wide, then, revealing the beautiful, hypnotic, swirling crystal of the Matrix, as Prowl, Perceptor and Ratchet listlessly protected their optics, and out of nothing, a blue beam of light left the Matrix, enveloping the disco globe, surrounding it.

  


A bluish, swirling spark came through the tractor beam from within the Prime’s chest, finally detaching and entering the disco-globe, as slowly, in between bursts of blue lighting, the object was finally enveloped whole, aglow, emitting blinding light in all directions, generating an EMP on a radius around himself, making every single autobot in the brig fall unconscious.

  


In the midst of chaos, surrounded by the knocked out mechs, the Disco Globe transformed into his root mode, revealing a very _reflexive_ robot, full with annoying mirrors, depicting a badge saying _Evidence_ , emitting his own light from within, stepping around calmly and recognising his surroundings.

  


Being the first to return from the world of the unconscious, Ratchet groaned as the disco-globe shifted his blue optics towards the _grumbling_ medic then knelt down, extending him a hand, his mirrors literally starting to _glow._

  


* * *

 

  


Starting to _glow_ , Microtron’s single giant red optic slowly came online, flickering on and off: Shockwave, still lacking his arm, connected to him, showed no outwards sign of satisfaction or lack of thereof at his successful onlining however, immediately disconnecting his medical cable and droning.

  


“My creation Microtron. Rise up.”

  


Nodding non-committally to Lord Megatron and Soundwave from afar, he dismissed himself, followed by the slightly hesitant newspark, who practically scurried behind him without saying a word.

  


* * *

 

  


Without saying a word, Ratchet stood up, facing the unsettling newcomer, smaller than himself by half a shell.

  


“…do you have a name or should I call you _Evidence_?”

  


The mech held a smirk, mock-saluting and looking up.

  


“Technotor at your disposal. How may this humble autobot be of help?”

  


At such an eager, young, _naïve_ newspark, freshly come from the Matrix, Ratchet minutely groaned: Optimus Prime was indeed in control of the Matrix and his theory of the paperweight just went down the grater.

  


Slowly sagging, Ratchet glared at the stasis cuffs on his feet, knowing very well what waited him once _Prowl_ awoke.

  


“Sure, Technotor. You could certainly _help_ me.”

  


* * *

 

 

“You could certainly help me.”

  


Shockwave droned at Scavenger, who had followed him out of the medbay, in a glee: the constructicon nearly jumped at the prospect of aiding his favourite _commander_ after Lord Megatron – of course – and almost hopefully clapped hands staring at Shockwave’s newspark, getting interrupted as still right outside the constructicon bay, the heliformer handed him his energon-dispenser card.

  


“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. Please take a total of four energon cubes into my dependences, and reserve a fifth one for yourself. Now my creation is properly online and out of peril we both shall be finally heading to my washracks. My door will be unlocked for your particular spark-frequency, so you may come in to deliver the cubes and my card. Do you copy?”

  


Excited, Scavenger nodded, quickly patting Microtron in the head then taking the card and hurrying to gather the cubes, as Shockwave turned to his creation, walking away to his dependences, being dutifully followed by the mechling, who clicked his three-digit claws together in visible anxiety.

  


“Carrier?”

  


Shockwave kept walking, ordering him to _report_ without turning a single glare, as the mechling’s optic glowed minutely, his left hand slowly moving towards Shockwave’s right one, holding it firmly although not being held back, an inquisitive tilt in his head.

  


“What’s a washrack?”

  


* * *

 

  


“A washrack.”

  


Technotor nodded.

  


“Why do you think I need a washrack now, _kid_?”

  


The disco-globe mech waved a hand over Ratchet’s overall _appearance_.

  


“You’re scratched, dented, and just plain _old_ , mech! You need a wash and a paintjob just to start with!”

  


Getting whacked once with Ratchet’s turned off surgical laser across the forehead, Technotor yelped.

  


“Don’t _Knock-Out_ me, lad. I’m old enough to be your _sire_. Now, are you helping me or not?”

  


“I was trying to help when I suggested the washracks.” He sagged.

  


“You know what I mean! I’m a _dead_ mech once Prowl awakes, and I have to _leave_. You want to help this _old timer_? Get me my wrench from the security room and out of Red Alert’s hands and then I’ll remove these cuffs and I’m out of here.”

  


“Out? To where?” the disco-globe mech practically somersaulted before the medic, posing before him. Ratchet just shook his head, pondering that he really didn’t have much time left.

  


* * *

 

 

“I don’t have much time left.”

  


Scavenger was busy, annoyed, and was currently carrying four piled up cubes in his arms, as he got surrounded by the _coneheads_.

  


“Sure you can share these beauties with us. We know your bondmates have their share of access to the solar-energy cubes, so they won’t miss these four.” droned Dirge.

  


“But they aren’t for us. They are for _Commander Shockwave_.”

  


Turning _white_ in their plates, the three coneheads shared a glance and left, running, as Scavenger nodded happy to see how _respected_ his favourite commander was, leaving the mess hall, gleefully sauntering away.

  


* * *

 

  


Gleefully sauntering away, full of dirt and carrying a distinctive _stench_ of Wheeljack’s inventions and sulphur, Technotor walked by the corridors of the Ark wholly satisfied.

  


He had just helped an old mech to cross the street, I mean, cross through the huge underground tunnel leaving to the decepticon base – what’s a decepticon anyway? – and to finally seal the tunnel behind him with something labelled _plot device unit_ (that they had found sitting on a shelf at the Lab).

  


So engrossed was he in sauntering that he nearly didn’t notice the pair of black _enforcer_ hands holding him up by his chest, bringing him to optic level.

  


“Commander Officer Prowl, Second in Command of the Autobot Forces on Earth. According to security recordings of the brig, you are under arrest for helping the escape of a _prisoner_ of the Prime.”

  


* * *

  


 

A prisoner of his own systems, The Prime awoke slowly, noticing he was under _someone_ ’s care: thinking it could be a _medic_ , he winced then relaxed as he noticed _Red Alert_ , sporting a huge dent and an energon leak in his forehead, looking down at him.

  


“Welcome back, Prime.”

  


Optimus squinted, not quite understanding: having suffered a small memory wipe, he vaguely recalled ordering The Matrix to give life to the fragging _disco-globe_ , but remembered nothing afterwards.

  


“Where is the disco-globe?”

  


Red Alert fidgeted.

  


“You sure you want to know?”

  


* * *

 

  


“I _certainly_ want to know.”

  


Technotor shrugged, stasis-cuffed, his mirrors reflecting a thousand of _Prowl_ ’s faces, one scowl in each of them.

  


“That old white mech first asked for help to get his wrench – he must be really attached to it! – then I got to that room full of cameras with a screeching red mech called Mad Alert or something with finials fizzling, ready to whack me for _trespassing_ , and _what was I doing getting that criminal out of the brig_ , so I had no option but to _whack_ that lunatic first.”

  


Prowl gave him a flat stare.

  


“…he looked dangerous.”

  


Prowl raised one optic ridge, _sighing_.

  


“Continue.”

  


Technotor nodded, smiling and flaring his mirrors wide for a second, resting them back against his plating.

  


“Well, I took the wrench to that _old timer_ , he seemed quite satisfied then did some jigamajig into the things on his feet and finally came free, then he dragged me to some place smelling of sulphur, whacked a poor mech with a faceplate and two side glowing panels before he could say anything as he went through the door, got something labelled _plot device unit_ , and then dragged me out again, giving me the _thing_ and getting me to that tunnel, insisting that I had to explode it after he went through.”

  


Prowl stiffened.

  


“What. Tunnel.”

  


Technotor laid a pensive hand before his chin.

  


“Before leaving, he said some _decepticon_ scavenged through it, and commented something about him being a _dead_ mech already, although he did look like quite alive to me, despite being _old_ , and that since he was _persona non-grata_ anyway around here, he might as well join the decepticons.”

  


Prowl gritted his dental plates, recalling _Scavenger_ and instantly understanding _how_ Ratchet left. Technotor smiled.

  


“I have been helpful, officer! Can I ask one thing?”

  


Shooting daggers, Prowl squinted.

  


“What.”

  


“What’s a _decepticon_?”

  


* * *

 

  


“What’s a _decepticon_?”

  


Shockwave, still lacking his left arm, holding a mesh, dutifully washed Microtron’s back plating until it gleamed under the solvent shower.

  


“We are Decepticons. Turn.”

  


Microtron turned with a saunter, opening both arms wide asking for a _hug_ , tilting his head to the right, as Shockwave ignored his silent request and merely scrubbed his screen chestplate carefully not to scratch it. The newspark looked disappointed for a second, then giggled as the solvent bubbled up.

  


“I like this _washing_ thing. The bubbles tickle!”

  


The _kid_ hummed as the solvent-drenched mesh brushed his plating, and Shockwave nodded, droning.

  


“It is a necessary routine maintenance, required whenever you become less than sanitary, unless self-preservation is paramount, in which case it should be postponed until safety is ensured. Register this degree of cleanliness into your systems and aim to keep like this whenever possible. Do you copy?”

  


Microtron nodded, as Shockwave unceremoniously lifted then carried his _burden_ under his arm and placed him outside of the washracks, inside the recharging area of the room.

  


“It is my turn now. I require that you wait in the room. While you first came in and I told you to begin washing without me, I cleaned up the berth, so now it is hygienic enough for you to sit there and wait for me. I will not close the washracks, but you may not enter.”

  


“Why?”

  


Shockwave turned a flat glare to his creation, the insides of his soiled interface panel reminding him of why he cleaned up the berth and also _begging_ to be properly cleaned as well before the automated self-cleaning routine can kick in, as he ignored the question and continued to drone.

  


“I am lacking an arm. I will take a while to _finish_ and you will wait my return. Understood?”

  


Microtron sagged, but nodded, turning on his back and sitting on the berth cross legged, waiting. Shockwave, satisfied to see he was already raising an _obedient_ creation, briefly patted him on the camera head, returning to the solvent shower and promising to call him back.

  


* * *

 

 

  


“Call me back? Promise? Prowl! Ya not really leavin’me with dat annoying newspark, are’ya?”

  


Prowl ignored Jazz, walking out of the brig, having left his TIC in charge of their two prisoners, Perceptor, still offline, and Technotor, stasis-cuffed and still slowly bouncing up and down in his seat.

  


Passing a hand through his helm, Jazz sighed, staring at the minibot that managed to measure three fourths of his height, blinking his reflection off the hundreds of mirrors, now poking the offlined Perceptor.

  


The things he sacrificed himself for, he pondered, remembering how close he was to the deadline Prowl established for Jazz to go back into trying to _court_ him.

  


It would better be worth it.

  


* * *

 

  


It would better be _worth_ it.

  


In-venting, Ratchet prowled upon the Nemesis, covered with dirt, mud and foliage, having just emerged from Scavenger’s tunnel: he had to find Strongarm and expose his _situation_. He hoped to be _vouched_ for and perhaps be allowed into the decepticons with minimal hassle.

  


Later he would think of whacking him across the chevron for bringing him trouble in first place: for now the _vouching_ sufficed.

  


Having no idea where he was, he tried to scan his closer surroundings for the spark frequency he knew, unable to find him. Either he was too far away in the ship, locked up behind thick walls, or in the worst case possible, deactivated and the left arm in his subspace was nothing but a grim reminder.

  


For a second wondering he didn’t want to be found by any other decepticon before getting to his intended destiny, Ratchet scurried in root mode, squinting as he spotted the shadow of four paddles and a battlemasked head peeking from a corner at him.

  


“Hey!!!! You!!!!”

  


As the battlemasked face disappeared on the corner, Ratchet ran out of the underbelly of the ship after it, feet splashing the dirty puddles of water away.

  


* * *

 

  


Feet splashing the dirty puddles of water away, Scavenger, having just come from his assigned task of taking Shockwave’s room the four energon cubes, had just returned to his _treasures_ in the lower hull of the Nemesis, practically sauntering in glee as he carried his own personal cube of energon, gifted from his favourite commander.

  


Already planning on how he would savour his well-deserved prize, he could barely contain his EM-field, spreading it wide around the corridors, wondering if he should convert it into gelled treats to chew on slowly, or if he should just slosh himself fully to the brim, the instant he was ran over by a battlemasked heliformer followed by a screeching white mech bearing the autobot symbol and insistently calling for _Strongarm to wait for him, for he wanted to talk._

  


Scavenger made his best to keep his energon cube out of reach, as he observed Ratchet seize the confusion to capture the rotary in a tight hug, threatening to hit him across the chevron if he disappeared again.

  


Clearing his vocaliser, scratching his head and giving a worried glare at the white mech _hugging_ him, _Vortex_ blinked his red visor, stared briefly at Scavenger, then sized Ratchet up and down, snorting and groping the medic’s ass.

  


“I wasn’t aware _Swindle_ was still _pimping_ me.” He winked his visor “You’d look good getting _introduced_ to my _hacking cable_ , autobot _medic._ ”

  


_Freezing_ in place, Ratchet finally properly stared at the _red_ visored, grey heliformer with _both_ arms that he was hugging tight and whose hands not only groped but also fondled his aft, shoving the torturer away to the ground with a disgusted face, as Scavenger tilted his head in confusion.

  


Looking slightly _offended_ , Vortex shook his head and stood up folding arms.

  


“What, were you expecting a different _rotary_?” he shook his head “Now it’s a matter of _pride._ I’ll make sure you’ll have a better _time_ with me. At least I have _emotions_ , albeit _inappropriate_ , unlike _Shockwave_ , that _sparkless_ _drone_ Megatron seems to be so fond of.”

  


Scavenger, until then just looking confused, _growled._ No one badmouths his favourite _commander_!

  


Suddenly being witness to a _catfight_ , before he could attempt to process the phrases Vortex said, Ratchet blinked as Scavenger subspaced his energon cube and _jumped_ the interrogator on the wet ground, engaging a healthy _discussion_ and rolling out of sight.

  


 

* * *

 

  


Enrolling a healthy _discussion_ , out of sight from his autobots, within his Office, Optimus Prime smirked widely beneath his battlemask as Elita-1 regally strode in.

  


“Elita-1. I summoned you here with a purpose.”

  


By now very conscious of the new autobot, Elita, blasé, aware she lost their bet, rested a hand against her hip, not losing her poise.

  


“Yes, beloved sparkmate. I have _commanded_ the Matrix to give life to Perceptor’s disco-globe.”

  


She nodded, sarcastic.

  


“You are such a brilliant mech, dear. Not only you humiliated your _ex_ into _leaving to the decepticons_ by proving him that his absurd notion that you have the _paperweight_ and not the _real deal_ inside is nothing but a fraud, but you also floored me by commandeering The Matrix, winning our bet. Congratulations.”

  


Walking around his desk and climbing it, Elita-1 positioned herself legs widespread before him, ready to move into his chair and straddle him on command.

  


“I recall we are due at least a year of absent sparkmerging.”

  


Optimus then retracted his battlemask, holding his hands on her hips, _snickering_.

  


“We are, aren’t we?”

  


Staring deep into her optics, he quickly dipped his head down, capturing her lips in his and literally _flooding_ her systems with all sorts of _Prime_ directives, almost activating on autopilot her lubricant releasing subroutines, a powerlessness that had been installed into her frame as consort to the Prime that made sure she would be _ready_ whenever required.

  


She hated the lack of _choice_ and the _slavery_ that being a _Prime_ consort truly was, but right now, specifically now, she had a mix of want and accumulated spark-energy, almost welcoming the invasion, literally melting right then and there, recalling how Prowl accused and forbade them of getting intimate into the Office and surrounding areas.

  


“I wouldn’t mind getting a _fine, Prime._ ”

  


Receiving the large waves of her compliant _spark_ ’s EM-field, Optimus deepened the kiss, _smirking_ against her lips and staring at her optics, until he finally, unceremoniously, broke contact, stood up and walked to his Office’s door, opening it wide and making a flourish towards the outside.

  


“I _would_. Farewell.”

  


Elita-1 blinked stupidly as the first droplets of lubricant dripped down from her _port-only_ systems into her own closed interface panel. Optimus cleared his vocalisers and briefly approached her.

  


“Let me explain to you like you were a protoform. The instant I brought into existence my brave newspark with _The Matrix_ , my command has squelched _her_ spark-hunger, and literally quit the pressure into making you and I physically produce one.”

  


Elita-1 gaped, unbelieving, as Optimus motioned with his optics to the door that she should _go_ , and she just plain _left_ , stomping.

  


Contemplating his sweet one-year long _revenge_ , Optimus, smiling almost innocently at her retreating aft, nodded to himself and to the world at large.

  


He would for the first time in ages recharge in peace.

  


* * *

 

 

Recharging in peace, curled like a protoform on a tight ball on his left side, Microtron never heard the moment Shockwave stepped out of the washracks, already clean, a quick patch covering the stump of his left shoulder.

  


Contemplating his creation, sternly, Shockwave dipped his head down, letting him rest and finally sitting on his desk, taking _notes_ on his personal databanks concerning _Microtron_ ’s behavioural patterns, then opening a new file where he copied the specs of his remaining right arm into a datapad, mirroring it and starting a replacement arm project, lamenting the loss of the doubleforged left hand and all its sensors and medical paraphernalia.

  


Pondering about the impossibility of currently opening up his own right hand and splitting his medical sensors into two hands, without help, he briefly turned to stare at his creation, then shook his head, giving up.

  


Microtron was too inexperienced to do anything yet, even with the proper programming: Shockwave either needed a real _medic_ to help, or to give up and install a gun-arm, just like his purple shell back on Cybertron.

  


Hummm.

  


Standing up, he recalled he still had a spare, forged hand in storage back in his Tower on Cybertron, under the guardianship of his purple sparkless drone; with a temporary arm and that spare left hand installed, he might be able to split the sensors of the right hand to allow for the recreation of two regular medical hands, which would be the most logical course of action, given the circumstances.

  


Wondering how difficult it would be to call for his drone left on Cybertron and request for a spacebridge, Shockwave stared once more at his creation, walked close, opened his lateral medical port with a quick medical override, and plugged him his purple cable, accessing his recharge centres and providing him a deep cycle, to make sure he wouldn’t be awake while he was away and get into trouble.

  


It was time for an audience with Lord Megatron.

  


* * *

 

 

Lord Megatron passed his optics with annoyance at the datapad Hook had handed him.

  


“What is that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to _shun_ Shockwave? Sever the sparkbond???”

  


“My Lord, I never meant that. Just that I advise against any future sparkmerging with your second mate until we find out exactly how that _parasitic_ structure, attached to his shell and spark, affected both his and Soundwave’s sparking. What if we get a brave newspark out of each single merge or couple of merges? What kind of strain would it bring to Shockwave’s already medically _weakened_ spark? You don’t want your _mate_ to offline and leave you at risk of consequences from the severed bond, do you?”

  


Megatron seemed to ponder for a second, then waved a dismissive hand in the air.

  


“Apparently, Shockwave’s _Matrix_ is an impressive beast and it worked terrifically, especially if you consider he even got sparked in first place. Quite the feat. You worry too much.”

  


Hook stared, offended, huffing and stomping out of the place, as the control room’s door came open, revealing the already gleaming clean, one-armed Shockwave strolling by, going in a beeline right towards Megatron, bowing with a flourish, helm and visor dipped down, _waiting_.

  


Megatron _smirked_ and straightened himself.

  


“Shockwave. Perfect timing as usual. Ready to _share_ news on Microtron?”

  


Shockwave, who had come by to talk about the possibility of contacting Cybertron to reach his drone and gather his spare left hand, stalled: he had not anticipated his _lord_ would actually really want to know about their creation, and didn’t have any official report prepared on this.

  


Before Shockwave could drone a not-answer however, a loud klaxon roared on the background and a white and red ambulance bearing the autobot symbol invaded the room, full of dirt, transforming and literally braking right before the heliformer.

  


Unblinking, apparently unsurprised, Shockwave didn’t stir, merely visually inspecting his former CMO.

  


“Chief Medical Officer. As you can see, I am busy. What do _we_ owe your presence?”

  


He dipped his head in assent, stepping aside and making room for Megatron, who walked in and growled, grabbing Ratchet by the scruff of his neck, raising him to the level of his optics.

  


“ _Shockwave_ asked you a question I am quite curious about myself.”

  


At that, Ratchet widened his optics and snapped his neck, turning his face towards the white heliformer.

  


_Shockwave_ _?_

  


Wait.

  


_Hadn't Shockwave been left behind on Cybertron_???

  


Mind suddenly spinning as he briefly scanned the white shell for _Strongarm_ ’s spark frequency, confirming it was _not_ there, he opened his ancient databanks trying to compare the readings he obtained to come to the conclusion that…

  


_Oh, Primus._

  


Everything now made complete and terrifying sense: not only Strongarm was a decepticon, he was _the_ decepticon, no one less than Shockwave, the first of the known _outliers_ , the only known mech capable of altering his spark frequency, and as usual, Prowl was absolutely _right_ in his calculations and fears.

  


Getting thrown out of his thoughts as he was also thrown at the ground, right before the immobile white mech, Ratchet shook his head, looking up from his position at the undersides of Shockwave’s protruding chest, briefly raking his sight up, down, and finally resting optics in the shoulder stump, just as the _zimmm_ of Megatron’s fusion canon approached his audials, close.

  


“I don’t have the whole day, _autobot_. What are you doing in _my_ base??”

  


Ratchet stood up slowly; he was literally _fried_ with the autobots anyway, and was already about to be smelted at the Pit just for being here at the Decepticons: might as well go there and shake hands with the Unmaker himself. What was one more sin or two?

  


“I’ve become persona non grata among the autobots and so I’m here to join the decepticons.” He pointed to Shockwave’s missing arm, unsubspacing the left arm he had stored in “I expect you might be _needing_ _this_? _Vo_ _uch_ for me and we have a _deal_. I can even _install_ it.”

  


He dangled the amputated arm before the heliformer’s visor, subspacing it back, as Shockwave stared completely unfazed, _thinking_ about the potential recovery of his left arm, instead of going through the hassle of crafting himself a new one.

  


Megatron, observing the silent exchange, aimed the fusion canon.

  


“You believe you may obtain favour with _me_ by performing service. I trust your abilities. I don’t trust your intentions: I know what you are trying to do. It’s useless, Ratchet. What you want is to take the Decepticon Matrix from inside _my_ Chief Science Officer!”

  


Ratchet stalled, rolling this particular info in mind.

  


What was this _Decepticon Matrix_? Did it have anything to do with the _missing_ paperweight?

  


Before he could ponder further, though, Megatron readied his canon to shoot.

  


“You might have made a good, and by good I mean _dangerous_ , decepticon _. Very_ well. Since you claim to be persona non grata, I supposed that I should return your severed head and your hands to your Prime as _token_ of your deactivation. Who knows. The Prime might even appreciate it.”

  


At that, Shockwave, immobile and _thinking_ about the similarity of this situation with his own _Empurata_ , spoke.

  


“My Lord. May I suggest the most logical course of action for the current situation?”

  


Megatron, raising an optic ridge towards his mate, nodded briefly. Shockwave kept droning.

  


“The autobot Chief Medical Officer has brought my left arm arm back: it is ladded with medical instruments, paraphernalia and a double set of medical sensors and scanners I would sorely miss. If it wouldn’t be untoward of mine, I would wish to reclaim the arm back. It would be a great waste to let these medical instruments _go_ , and I am positive that as a _chevroned_ medic and a scientist I am skilled enough to implant it back myself with a little _aid_.”

  


Megatron, pondering, kept aiming at the medic.

  


“Unsubspace his arm. Now.”

  


“Only if you let me into the decepticons.”

  


Megatron snorted, the _zimm_ of the cannon approaching the medic’s audials as Shockwave stared completely unaffected.

  


“You aren’t exactly in position to bargain, _medic_. I can just as easily dispose off you and retrieve the arm afterwards.”

  


Ratchet then felt the _heat_ coming from the fusion canon, the instant a certain monotone voice droned.

  


“My Lord. If I may make a request. Spare the autobot and throw him in the brig for now. He might be _useful_. I could always use a pair of forged, capable medical hands under my direct command.”

  


Squinting, Megatron briefly inspected his mate, unable to discern any kind of _inappropriate_ intent from his EM-field, just eerie neutrality.

  


“Very well. I am aware you will be getting a new Lab soon. Granted. Make sure he will be _obedient_.”

  


“Do not worry. I have means of ensuring his complete _cooperation_ , my Liege.”

  


Before Ratchet could protest, Shockwave walked to him and extended his hand.

  


“Chief Medical Officer. Be a collaborative test subject and future lab assistant and return me my arm. Do not make me plug in and force your subspace to release it. You know I would, and you know it hurts.”

  


Giving him a brief unreadable glance, the heliformer just kept his stiff position, as Ratchet, knowing when he lost the fight, shook his head, groaned and finally unsubspaced the detached arm.

  


Taking the arm with a dip of his head, Shockwave then bowed to his _lord_ , ignoring the medic and leaving, as Megatron called for Skywarp to take the autobot to the brig, observing amused the purple seeker come up then disappear in a VOP through a narrow _tunnel_.

  


* * *

  


 

From a narrow tunnel, Scavenger crawled at the other side of the underbelly of the Nemesis, carrying a stasis-locked grey heliformer.

  


He had just beaten up Vortex for offending his favourite commander, and he was positive his gestaltmates would approve it!

  


Having emerged right inside Vortex’s own dependences, or better, his personal torture room, he knew what he had to do, the instant he spotted the _decorated_ recharge slab full of dangerous shiny trinkets, where the heliformer brings his victims to, and smiled, laying his victim on the slab, broken and crashed.


	16. Crash test dummies

Crashed on his side, slowly coming out of a foggy recharge, Wheeljack coughed up a few gears from underneath the desk where he was currently laid, only to meet the stern faceplates of..

 

“Prowl?”

 

The autobot SIC gave him a brief nod, rising him from the ground by a shoulder.

 

“Where is your _plot device unit_?”

 

Wheeljack blinked his optics and his side panels twice, instantly looking at the shelf where it used to be.

 

“...why?”

 

“I am the one making the questions: was it _meant_ to explode?”

 

“You know very well my stuff is rarely _meant_ to explode!”

 

“Of course. Whenever it’s _meant_ to it never does. Isn’t it just convenient?”

 

“What are you implying?”

 

“I’m _affirming_ you are a _conveniently lousy_ engineer and that I have a place in the brig just _expecting_ you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Soundwave. I wasn’t expecting you.”

 

Soundwave nodded, EM-field flat, having arrived in the room and standing by Megatron’s side: he had just witnessed Shockwave leaving the room carrying his own arm out.

 

Megatron on his side, dipped his head in a nod and kept contemplating a giant octopus crawling by the outsides of the undersea base, recalling how the autobot’s arrival effectively prevented himself of _ordering_ Shockwave to present him their creation, finally turning to his first mate.

 

“I have read Microtron’s tech-specs, Soundwave. He has your _cables_. Care to explain?”

 

Soundwave nodded.

 

“Newspark’s shell: Mixmaster’s craft. Soundwave: always _active_ participant during interfacing and sparkmerging with Shockwave. Soundwave’s CNA within Shockwave’s _plates_ : the most immediately available _source_ of cybertronium.”

 

Megatron nodded: he knew. His scientist even made sure to _forge_ mental pathways elaborated enough so that he could _offline_ his conscious mind during the act and actually _perform_ on his feeble _sensations_ in a way both bondmates could see they were doing everything _right_.

 

If it depended solely on Shockwave’s logic, the tyrant would always interface with an immobile, yet feeling, willing and consenting _drone_ : Megatron could indeed appreciate that Shockwave valued enough their bond to have taken _time_ to develop the automated responses at all.

 

“I thought the luxury of passing one’s own CNA unto offspring is one we decepticons cannot afford.”

 

Stalling minutely, Soundwave stiffened his joints, ready to defend himself.

 

“Soundwave: _superior_. Datacables, useful: will teach Microtron.”

 

* * *

 

 

Microtron onlined his single optic to find himself alone in his carrier’s room.

 

Sitting on the very large berth, he asked himself where _carrier_ could be, swinging his legs out, jumping and walking to the desk, where he sat, feet dangling out of the chair, staring at the two datapads left there.

 

One of them was about himself, the other about what he understood would be his carrier’s future arm.

 

Suddenly getting an idea, he nodded, and slowly wormed out one datacable from his back, opening its feelers wide and latching them without finesse onto the first dapatad, his HUD filling with information he didn’t yet understand, soon downloaded to his systems. Blinking his optic on and off, he shifted the feelers to the second datapad, literally guzzling all the information in, getting slightly dizzy.

 

 _Giggling_ , almost drunk on the overflow of information, he didn’t even notice the instant Shockwave came inside the room, carrying with his single hand his damaged arm.

 

Turning his visor at his giggling creation, Shockwave, pondering he would have to recalibrate Microtron’s recharging routines, walked close, peeking at what he was doing.

 

“What kind of reproachable behaviour is that.”

 

Microtron _hiccuped_.

 

Recognising the symptoms of _data_ overload, and staring at the datacable, connecting the dots, Shockwave nodded, taking one energon cube, cracking its sealed lid open, and placing it before him.

 

“The fact that you have part of Soundwave’s CNA is a very _interesting_ outcome indeed. Estate how many datacables you own.”

 

Microtron dimmed his single giant red optic, counting on his clawed fingers.

 

“Tw – _hic –_ elve?”

 

“ _Fascinating_. Soundwave only owns four. Allow me.”

 

Capturing the datacable in his hand, Shockwave felt for its weight, and with a quick flare of his medical heaters, coaxed its plating open, revealing his feelers, at which Microtron stared with a tilt in his head, excitedly: he didn’t expect them to come out without his conscious will.

 

“Cooool!”

 

“It should allow for refuelling, considering your lack of a working mouthpiece. You shall need raw energy to process the excess data. Now spread your feelers wide as you dip them into the energon. Gently.”

 

“Yay!”

 

Microtron, practically _beaming_ , jolted the feelers out like a nuclear mushroom into the energon, spreading it all over Shockwave’s battlemask and visor, as the heliformer just _stared_.

 

“We must seriously refine your _skills_.”

 

“…sorry?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Sorry! I said I’m sorry! I didn’t know that old timer was dangerous and defecting!”

 

Jazz, trying to fall onto Prowl’s good graces, made his best to ignore the disco-globe mech, the instant Optimus Prime walked into the brig.

 

“Jazz.”

 

“Prime.”

 

He dipped his head in a nod to the Prime, as Optimus regally ordered him with his optics to give room, walking towards the stasis-cuffed and locked up disco-globe mech.

 

“Technotor. I am here to welcome the first newspark to come from the Matrix in aeons.”

 

The small mech sagged.

 

“Don’t feel much _welcome_ here. I’ve been used by that rustbucket of a medic for him to escape, been interrogated and locked up, and no one here seems to like to rave!”

 

Perceptor then meekly rose a hand, nodding, as Jazz _smirked_ and Optimus cleared his vocalisers, continuing.

 

“As The Prime, and responsible for your existence, Technotor, I’ll give you a second chance. Jazz, release him.”

 

“But Prime! Prowler specifically tol’me to mak’sure he won’t leave da brig!”

 

“He was _goaded_ into aiding. I’m positive I can teach him better by example. Now. Who is the TIC and who is the Prime here? Just release him. If Prowl asks, I ordered you to.”

 

Jazz _groaned_ , obeying and letting the energon cage and the cuffs go off, as Technotor rubbed his wrists and Perceptor just _stared_ , meekly pointing a hand to himself.

 

Jazz, seeing this gesture, cleared his throat, alerting the Prime; Optimus, taking an instant to ponder, waved a dismissive hand.

 

“Perceptor is not dangerous. Let him out as well. Technotor, you come with me. I have _someone_ you need to meet.”

 

“Yessir!!!”

 

Technotor then pirouetted at the brig, as Optimus, having been enlightened by _The Matrix_ to come by to meet _his_ creation, _smiled_ , followed closely by his newspark.

 

* * *

 

 

Followed closely by _his_ newspark, Shockwave did what he was good at and dove into a new project, intent in _refining_ his creation’s set of still non-existent skills.

 

“Microtron. Pay very close attention. This is my missing left arm, full with sensors and important instruments.”

 

Shockwave exposed his own detached arm to his creation, as the mechling, very curious, prodded the loose wiring with a claw.

 

“You shall undergo a brief anatomical lesson now. Soon, we are undergoing _surgery_. You sorely _need_ to refine your non-existent skills, and my arm _needs_ to be reattached.”

 

* * *

 

 

“My arm! It needs to be reattached!”

 

Scavenger inspected Vortex’ arm, _autistically_ sitting on the ground, the heliformer bound on his own torture slab. The torturer winced as the constructicon pulled wires slowly from the detached arm, inspecting their gleam like treasures under the dim light.

 

“I… I’m not sorry of insulting _Shockwave_. I indeed think I’m better at being a heliformer than he is, and even better at interfacing. I’m yet to see Swindle trying to pimp _him_!”

 

Scavenger ripped a full set of cables out, displaying them around his own neck like a morbid necklace, _giggling_. Vortex minutely widened his visor.

 

“C’mon, Scavenger, you can’t be that serious, he is just _Shockwave_ , not even _he_ cares about what anyone says about him, why should you care???”

 

Opening his battlemask and _slurping_ the cable from his neck into his fuel intake like macarroni, Scavenger burped, as Vortex, for the first time in ages horrified, despite his own masochism, screamed from the top of his vocalisers that he was sorry, terribly sorry, the sound of _crunched_ wiring filling his audials.

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of crunched wiring filled his audials, as Microtron focused intensely on Shockwave’s hand working on his own amputated arm, and the scientist impassively droned with his pince-transformed, hand pointing out:

 

“Look closely at these structures: I will try to compensate function by diverting the link to the other half of the neural net connection. Notice that the processed fuel line used to pass up close and I will reroute it as well. Most probably the waste fluid cable can be split to be used as alternative.”

 

Microtron approached, looking: the single optic focused on the hanging wires, clawed hands clicking nervously as Shockwave droned mercilessly on the adjustments required to make the arm functional again.

 

“Where did you say is the _alternative_ _neural waste connection_?”

 

Shockwave _stalled_ , _eerily_ turning his visor to Microtron, blinking slowly, deadly mute for a full minute.

 

“Microtron. Have you no sense of _logic_? There is not such a connection. You were clearly not paying enough attention. I see I will need to simplify the explanation as I speak. Start taking _notes._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Speak_. I am taking notes.”

 

Wheeljack sagged, as Prowl made sure to interrogate him on the way to the brig.

 

“I already told you, I’m innocent!”

 

“Everymech says the same: Technotor, Perceptor, even _Jazz_.” he pushed the engineer inside the brig, not even looking inside “Now get in and join them.”

 

“Them _who_?”

 

Jolting his optics inside, Prowl contemplated the empty brig, Jazz sitting dejectedly on a corner, sulking and shaking his head.

 

“Sorry, Prowler, can’na win’against da Prime.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Prime unceremoniously overrode Elita-1’s door, stepping in, getting greeted by a flying energon cube, ducking as it exploded in a tiny atomic mushroom on the wall and Technotor widened his optics.

 

“Love you too, darling.” Optimus dipped his head in a nod at her “I am here to present you my creation, Technotor.”

 

She held her contempt and stood up, walking in circles around the shiny mirrorred mech, staring him almost optic to optic, the newspark being slightly smaller.

 

“So glad to meet my bonded’s creation. I don’t recall we have interfaced. Who was the happy _sire_?”

 

Optimus gritted his dental plates behind his mask, as she kept her fake smile and confused, the newspark scratched his head.

 

“What’s interfacing? What’s a _sire_?”

 

Before Elita could reply, Optimus intervened.

 

“Technotor was created using my databanks as basis and there was no interface involved. As far as I know, the _co-creator_ is no one less the _Matrix_ herself.”

 

She snorted.

 

“An immaculate conception to the Prime! Why am I not surprised?”

 

Optimus glowered at her, pulling Technotor closer.

 

“Elita. You promised you would be _graceful_ about it. Show some _respect._ ”

 

She puffed up, outraged, hands on her hips.

 

“Fine, _mommy_. Speaking on respect: have you given him his own quarters already, or are you planning on going _decepticon_ and neurotically bunking up with your _creation_?”

 

Optimus, not having thought about it, stalled.

 

He was aware of the decepticon custom of keeping a very close watch on one’s own creation, due to the numerous threats come from other mechs at their faction: among the autobots it wasn’t really required for safety matters, as such, newsparks were supposed to be given their own place.

 

The only problem is, they didn’t have any proper room available, and the _storage closet_ he had given _Strongarm_ once was certainly not adequate.

 

Unless…

 

Bitterly recalling there was indeed one vacant room, he turned his face to the newspark, ordering him to follow behind.

 

* * *

 

 

Following behind the outraged Prowl, Jazz futilely tried to do damage control with Wheeljack on tow, as the SIC resolutely searched for Optimus in the Ark.

 

Who the Prime thought he was to disrupt his authority like this?

 

Oh, sure. He was the Prime.

 

Still. It was a breech of security and a break of trust for the Prime to release his _suspects_ like this.

 

Perceptor, for a start: it was highly _suspicious_ of him to keep a _disco globe_ around. It was obvious he had to keep detained until a proper explanation could be obtained.

 

What about the newspark himself? He obviously needed to be scanned to confirm his origins: what if he had _not_ come by the Matrix, being instead another decepticon in disguise?

 

If the Prime had sent Strongarm to Cybertron years ago when _he_ showed up, they would never have had him, her, whatever, flip sides to the decepticons, much less their CMO would have defected behind.

 

Prowl was getting progressively tired of Optimus’ ineffectual leadership: the Prime had too much _spark_ and _emotion_ and too few rationality and _logic_ to properly abide by the rules.

 

“Prowler, can’I release Heeljack? He ain’t goin’nowere but da lab.”

 

Prowl turned on his heels, _growled_ , _glowered_ , and just plain kept _stomping_ , as Jazz stared at Wheeljack, shaking his head in an unspoken _sorry_ and tugging on his stasis cuffs, whispering that ‘ _he tried_ ’.

 

* * *

 

 

“I tried.”

 

Microtron sagged, as Shockwave stared at his own left shoulder, medical scanners showing a repair rate of 70% underneath the silvery scar.

 

“An acceptable first weld and repairwork. It shall suffice to a normal degree of laboratory strain and wear.”

 

“But it’s _ugly_ and it’s your arm and you’re beautiful and it’s not fair.”

 

Shockwave stared for a full minute at his own creation, intellectually comprehending yet unable to appreciate the compliment, dipping his head in a nod as he focused on Microtron’s Empurata-like single-opticed head and his _claws_ , recalled his own _punishment_ , and finally nodded.

 

“Life is never fair, Microtron. I currently do not care about the scarred metal or something as futile as aesthetics and appearances. I ordered you to weld the plating, you did it. Be honoured, I do not let just anyone _learn_ in me. Consider it a privilege.”

 

Extending then his left hand to his _creation_ , he dipped his head in a nod, silently inviting him to hold it: Microtron showed a high degree of need for physical contact and such an obedient creation deserved to be _rewarded_ with what he liked and wanted, from time to time.

 

Not needing to be ordered verbally, the _kid_ eagerly grabbed his creator’s hand in a saunter with his right claw and a gleam in his optic, nearly cradling it close to his own chestplate, looking up with an emotion Shockwave couldn’t identify or empathise with, but would rationally guess could be called pure, undiluted _love_ , of the same _kind_ he often saw between Soundwave and his own creations.

 

As soon as a full minute passed though, Shockwave stood up, pulling his creation along.

 

“Microtron, now I have indulged you enough, you will come with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Come with me. _”_

 

Technotor nodded, practically sauntering as he walked behind the Prime.

 

Optimus, heading straight towards Ratchet’s room, stalled once he saw no one less than _Prowl_ spreading ‘do not cross’ police tapes all over the door.

 

“Prowl. What is that supposed to mean?”

 

Prowl extended a datapad, mute. Optimus caught it, reading it.

 

“….evidence? _Evidence_ of what?”

 

Prowl extended another datapad, and another: Optimus groaned, handing them to Technotor, who caught both. Prowl extended another yet, and Optimus repeated the motion, making the disco-globe mech start piling up on datapads.

 

“Prowl...”

 

“Prime.”

 

Optimus sighed, getting the sixth datapad and transferring it to Technotor.

 

“Why are you putting _everyone_ on the brig? We can’t jail everyone!”

 

“Yes we can.”

 

“Prowl. The Brig isn’t big enough.”

 

“It could be.”

 

He handed the Prime another datapad, labelled _Brig Upgrade by Hoist and Grapple_. Optimus made his best to pretend to ignore it before piling it again at the newspark.

 

“The point is, you are too obsessed.”

 

“No. The point is, you are too _permissive_. This room remains locked for now. If you disrespect my command _here_ I am the one who will defect to the decepticons this time.”

 

Optimus stalled then: he couldn’t keep proper control of the autobots without his SIC and his perennial Police State. Bitterly, he clenched his fists.

 

“Fine. You win this time! Technotor!!! We are going to the Office!”


	17. Office Space

“We are going to the Office.”

 

Microtron nodded, releasing Shockwave’s hand and clicking his claws together as he watches _carrier_ chime in his own spark frequency and unlock the door, walking in.

 

Peeking inside, he observed the white heliformer give a navy blue mech sitting before a console a respectful nod, then walk before the gunformer’s bejewelled _throne_ and heel at a close distance, his own HUD, programmed by no one less than Shockwave himself, filling with one single word.

 

_Sire._

 

Anxiety kicking in as his viewport narrowed, Microtron completely forgot carrier’s recommendations on proper behaviour and protocol, just plain rushing in and _jumping_ into a surprised Megatron’s lap, holding his midsection firmly and clicking against his chest.

 

Soundwave observed from his spot the display, recalling his own cassetticon’s antics before they learned better, shaking his head, as Shockwave on his side, not giving away a single flicker of his currently conflicted EM-field or making any motion to stand up, just glared at his creation, for three full seconds, droning.

 

“Microtron is an effusive, emotional creature and has yet much to learn. If my Lord wishes I may take him away immediately and shall call him upon on his improper behaviour.”

 

Megatron, looking down the amorous mechling yet not replying the hug back, snorted and waved Shockwave a dismissive hand: there was something refreshing to have someone actually _like_ you just for you being _you_ , even if it was your own creation.

 

Recalling how deep down one day he had been hopeful and naive as well, Megatron unsubspaced a small datapad, practically un-glueing the mechling from himself and sitting him on his knee.

 

“Microtron. I have given something of mine to each of my creations, and I believe you will treat this with the spark it deserves.”

 

Taking the datapad in claws and staring down at it, he slowly wormed one datacable out and was about to latch its feelers into the datapad, ready to download it in one go, the instant Shockwave bolted from his position on the ground and clasped the cable with a hand, preventing him.

 

“You shall give our _Lord’s gift_ the due attention it deserves and you will _read_ it properly with your optic lens. _This_ should only be used to manipulate the screen. Are we understood?”

 

Raising an optic ridge, unaware of Microtron’s data _overload_ earlier, Megatron observed the mechling nod once and leave his lap, _b_ _eaming_ as the datacable jolted out of Shockwave’s hand and a single feeler came out, touching the black screen and lighting it up.

 

Yelping a _yay!_ and running into a corner, Microtron immediately sat down and begun to read, ignoring his surroundings as Shockwave followed him with his visor, watching his creation thoughtfully, and Soundwave left his console, walking to his side, contemplative as well.

 

Pondering he wouldn’t have an opportunity better than this to get them together in his adjacent private room, Megatron hurriedly stood up and took hold of both his bonded’s wrists, the three bondmates leaving the premises.

 

They needed to _talk._

 

* * *

 

 

“We need to talk.”

 

Firestar sighed at the phrase, sitting with Chromia and Arcee on the couch and staring at an inactive comm screen depicting static, before a single energon cube, being shared by them, as from the sofa a bound and tied Nautica, tired of being kept as a _prisoner_ , repeated the request.

 

Rolling her optics, Firestar turned to her _amica_.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I accept. I accept completing the full sparkbond to become your _conjux_ , with one condition though.”

 

Firestar rammed her fist in the air, getting cheered by her fellow female autobots.

 

“Say it out then!”

 

“Not here. In private. These two are too nosy!”

 

Arcee growled and Chromia huffed, as Firestar shook her head.

 

“I don’t have secrets with my fellow female autobots! You can ask for absolutely anything before them!”

 

At that, Nautica _smirked_.

 

“Absolutely anything?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Absolutely anything.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Of course, Technotor. You’re my creation and what’s mine is also yours.”

 

“ _Ultra-gear!!_ ”

 

Technotor _beamed_ , jumping and hanging himself in the ceiling, as Optimus _sighed_ , contemplating the turned off disco globe silently decorating the place: he had no option but to bring his creation to his own Office.

 

He seemed to be agreeable enough, despite slightly too _effusive_ , not to mention his _functional_ tendency to saunter and want to party: at least here he would be out of Elita-1’s _poisonous voicebox_ and envious spark.

 

Sitting on his own desk, looking up to find the currently turned off, recharging disco-globe, mirrors passively reflecting his own battlemask and optics, Optimus finally smirked, thinking that at last everything was finally over and well _._

 

* * *

 

 

“Now that everything is finally over, and well. Tell me. What came through your minds to leave base like you did, _sparked_ and about to _release_?”

 

Neither Shockwave or Soundwave blinked or moved, both standing up right before the tyrant’s very large recharge berth. Megatron sighed, pacing around them.

 

“You may speak freely. We are alone. You can make gestures. Even show _emotion_.”

 

Soundwave and Shockwave shared a faceplated glance, EM-fields flat and neutral.

 

“Soundwave: volunteered help. Variables: not calculated. Risks: unaccounted for.”

 

“My Lord.” Shockwave finally knelt down, on his secondary mate role. “It was my fault. I had been surprised by the newspark and went after parts for a shell. It was not logical to allow our creation to deactivate for lack of a body.”

 

  
Megatron shook his head.

 

“According to Hook, this extra-fast development of you BOTH had to do with this cursed Decepticon Matrix, when you _sparkmerged_ , am I right?”

  


Shockwave and Soundwave nodded, neither showing a single ounce of shame. Megatron pinched his nose-bridge.

 

“Shockwave: I will be blunt. Apparently _sparkmerging_ with you on your current _state_ can lead to extra-fast newsparks being released, and Hook advised against any of us sparkmerging with _you_ , specifically, until we learn enough about this _matrix_ you carry.”

 

Shockwave stalled: although he couldn’t care less if he interfaced or even sparkmerged with his bondmates or not, this particular recommendation looked like _hooked_ on Hook’s own personal dislike of his own self, instead of on true _logic._

 

“Hook is not a _scientist_ and cannot appreciate all the fascinating _aspects_ such an unusual event provides. If I may speak, _my Lord_ , a casuistic of two newsparks appropriately maturated into release protocols, out of one single merge, is logical yet feeble evidence of the presumed interference from the parasitic _M_ _atrix._ This unprecedented _phenomenon_ should be properly investigated under scientific rigour by a true _scientist_ , applying the proper standard protocols.”

 

Shockwave then stood up, turned and unceremoniously hung his chestplates wide open, _matrix_ jolted behind and sparkchamber ahead, ready to expose his own spark for the two dumbfounded bondmates.

 

“Since I am the current bearer of the parasitical matrix, opposite to Hook’s _unscientific_ recommendation, I offer myself to get _experimentally_ sparked and entering release protocols repeatedly, conditions required to reach a minimum _N_ of events so that the correct statistical calculations are made, improving dramatically the hard evidence surrounding this eventful happening. Which of you shall be the first contributor?”

 

And stared at them, as Soundwave blurted static and Megatron _blinked_ , immediately growling.

 

“Close up these plates immediately! You are _not_ getting sparked for the sake of S _cience_!”

 

Shockwave tilted his head, visibly pensive, chestplate remaining open, sparkchamber’s walls rotating and revealing his now exposed spark to them.

 

“It is a very logical and sound solution to prove or finally disprove Hook’s negative presumption.”

 

Soundwave shifted a glance between a now angrily stuttering Megatron and the eerily calm Shockwave, who kept droning.

 

“Need I cite, with all rerspect, my Liege, that all my newsparks eventually produced may be used to further the Decepticon Cause?”

 

Soundwave, knowing very well on an emotional level what it was for carrier-hosts and _females_ cybertronwide to be enslaved for reproduction, before they were nearly extinguished, shuddered at the mental image, as Megatron shook his head, vehemently stepping to his _scientist_ and unceremoniously clasping his hands at the open glass, violently closing the open plates, as the glowing spark barely had time to hide underneath the sparkchamber walls and Shockwave offlined his visor, out of balance and stepping backwards.

 

“I have nothing against _natural_ events of sparking, and certainly all of Soundwave’s creations and even _Microtron_ are or will be assets to the cause, but I expressly forbid you of getting purposefully sparked with this _matrix_ inside!”

 

As Shockwave recovered and just stared, Soundwave, finally out of his stupor, stepped ahead and placed a grounding hand in his leader’s shoulder, yet turning to his _logical_ mate.

 

“Soundwave: is positive Shockwave will heed Lord Megatron’s command. Shockwave: much more useful as scientist, not breeder. Should focus on new Lab.”

 

Dipping his head down in a nod, Shockwave retained a purposefully humbled stance, mind spinning.

 

Now there was something he could actively plan into and work on. Uncaring to Lord Megatron’s command, he indeed could practically _see_ himself researching with all his scientific lack of passion every nook and secret involving the _artefact_ and the event of _sparking._

 

He only needed further medical expertise, he pondered, recalling the autobot _medic_.

 

Logically, heeding Soundwave’s suggestion, he would indeed focus in the new Lab, and certainly find a way of keeping his _Matrix_ very much _alive_ , latched to an anonymous power source, where each time they needed a newspark, different mechs would connect through it.

 

He could imagine full spark factories, making decepticons in series, hatching them in artificial chambers _._

 

He could devise a re-enactment of the very Well of Sparks on Earth, under Decepticon guise and _his_ command, as Chief Science Officer.

 

_Fascinating._

 

* * *

 

Fascinated with _Lord Megatron’s Early Poetry Compilation_ , Microtron was sitting quietly on a corner at Megatron’s Office, reading his gifted datapad, the instant Starscream entered the room, trying to find his idiotic leader, nearly missing the silent mech.

 

Jolting back with wide optics, stopping right before him, kneeling down to optic level, Starscream gaped, having not yet seen the cyclopic drone’s creation.

 

“My, my, mighty _Shockwave_! Make Megatron _proud_ , Guardian!!!”

 

Microtron tilted his camera head in annoyance, as Starscream rose to his height, inspecting his own fingertips.

 

“Stand up. As you must already know, I am Starscream, Second in Command, and every other mech except for _Lord Megatron_ must heed my orders!”

 

Staring very focused at the seeker, standing up slowly, Microtron cycled his giant optic’s objective almost closed, processing the command, as a sudden beep escaped his frame and out of nothing his chestplate-screen froze in blue, then darkened, and finally lighted back, showing the start-up screen of Windows Seven Professional.

 

Starscream raised one optic ridge, scratching his head, as Microtron ashamedly and hurriedly turned off his chestplate-screen, nearly tripping on his own feet, rushing back to his corner, ready to go back into reading, the instant Starscream snorted, cackling.

 

“You know something, little _glitch_. Poking fun at you isn't funny. Hahahaha!”

 

He _sauntered_ to leave, as a dumbstruck Microtron stared, silently bubbling anger, EM-field flickering, a single datacable flailing out of his back slowly, worming in the air like a cobra, feelers spreading wide, ready to...

 

* * *

 

 

_Poke._

 

Optimus blinked stupidly, waking up: he didn’t even notice falling under recharge over his desk, again, and kept face down the table.

 

_Poke. Poke._

 

“Yes, Technotor. What do you want now?”

 

“Sorry, Prime, your _kid_ ’s still hung up.”

 

Finally looking ahead, he met the faceplates of Blaster, then briefly glared up, to see the newspark still off in slumber.

 

“And why are you here, now, Blaster?”

 

Blaster then handed him an official-looking datapad, silently, as the Prime read it briefly and pinched his nosebridge.

 

“So, you are really seeing this through to the end. Don’t you have a spark?”

 

Blaster nodded, looking up at the recharging disco-globe, very aware due to the gossip mill that it’s Prime’s creation with the _Matrix._

 

“Let’s just say that now you are _practically_ a single creator too, you might begin to understand what it’s like to be _in my place_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“But this is my _place_!”

 

Nautica shrugged.

 

“You said I could ask for _anything_.”

 

“I thought you’d ask… I don’t know what I thought, but certainly not that!”

 

Chromia then sighed, patting Firestar’s shoulders slowly.

 

“She isn’t asking much. She just wants to walk around freely in _your_ place and to remain out of her binds.”

 

“But she will run away! She had her optics set on that _Skates_ fellow!”

 

“It’s _Skids_.” Nautica shook her head “...and what does it matter that I did? He will never really set his on me. He might not even be alive anymore. Might as well settle for the only one who ever wanted to _kidnap_ me anyway, my lovely _amica_.”

 

Nautica donned her a flat glare, as she shrugged.

 

“Please, it’s not like I have much of a choice. Where else will I _go_ in this _blasted_ planet? Shockwave’s Tower with his army of drones? Knock-Out’s Mod Shop? Reflector’s Art and Photography? At the ruins of Kaon’s Gladiatorial Ring? The destroyed Hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon? Sunk down the Sea of Rust? The obliterated Praxian Grounds? The Lawyercon Stronghold? Among the Empties at old Polyhex? Nearby the Great Smelter?

 

At that, Firestar jumped her bound friend, enraged and screeching she was an ungrateful, undeserving _amica_ , and she would only ever walk around with herself on tow, attacking in full _charge._

 

* * *

 

 

“What. Are. The. Charges?”

 

Optimus pinched his nosebridge, holding Blaster's datapad in hands, as Ironhide, sitting across him on the desk, folded arms, his grim faceplates reflected in Technotor’s turned off mirrors above.

 

“The charges include: neglecting your three co-creations, never being around when they need....”

 

The arms specialist raised his arms up, fuming.

 

“I... we... are at War, Prime! My time is consumed between the decepticons, protecting _you_ , and the Military!”

 

Which was the main reason why he and Blaster actually grew apart. Optimus raised his hand, still reading.

  
“You are accused of never depositing the cassette-support.”

 

“Of course not, all Cybertronian banks no longer exist, where would I deposit anything? Besides, it isn't like we actually get _paid._ I'm broke.”

 

Optimus coughed then, quickly turning the page in the datapad with his hand.

 

“Ahem. It also says you don't spend quality time with the cassettes.”

 

“Look, I care about them. I took them that one time into training at the range at the begin of the War. Ramhorn, that I recently found out isn’t even _mine_ , was exultant to be allowed to shoot things. I even promised one day he would have a pair of chainguns. Frag, Prime, you can't possibly believe I'm that negligent!”

 

“The War started more than 10 million _years_ ago, Ironhide, and you took them only the once.”

 

Ironhide cringed his dental plates. Optimus continued.

 

“...and last accusation is _inappropriate_ exposure to that... human called William Lennox.”

 

Optimus went deadly mute, reading the detail of the accusation. Ironhide stuttered.

 

“But but... that wasn't _exposure_ , the human claimed he needed to empty his waste tanks in the woods and I stopped at the road to let him go! It isn't my fault the little perverts kept _staring_ through my windows as he tugged on his hose!”

 

“...too much information, Ironhide.”

 

He bit on his lip-plate, as Optimus continued, shaking his head sombrely.

 

“According to the three cassettes whose paternity was confirmed, they felt vulnerable and defiled by the presence of the human in their special day together with you, and became permanently _emotionally scarred_ after that.”

 

Optimus flickered his fingertip in the datapad, turning pages, as Ironhide groaned, recalling _Ramhorn_ , the only creation that wasn’t his, and the one he actually _liked_ the most.

 

How much he _regretted_ having never sparkbonded the last autobot carrier-host.

 

Now _three_ sparked creations, one _bastard_ and four million years later, he got prosecuted for _neglect_ by fragging _carrier-host_ Blaster, through the hands of the vicious Lawyercons.

 

* * *

 

 

Lawyercon Stronghold, Sea of Rust: we see a pitch-black mech with glowing crimson optics wandering the place, the signature frilly white wig on his head, a black mesh toga on his back, judiciously preparing his Accusative Defence.

 

Once, Quintessons were the Judges, having created their kind to aid in Court. Since everyone, especially innocents, were judged all the same and threw in scraplet-filled pits anyway regardless of proof or lack-of-thereof, Cybertronians stopped having faith in the Juridical System, as such, business had been an all-time-low for the latest million years.

 

As he scavenged avoiding the Empties among the _dead_ , it was with great surprise that he got contacted by a stranded cybertronian located on a backwards planet called _Earth_. He suspected it had to be a mighty specialised communications officer, especially because the message came cleverly disguised through decepticon satellites using an autobot signature.

 

The mech was _good,_ he whistled reading the arguments. Appellative in just the right way, playing his emotions _very close to his chestplate docks._

 

Typical Carrier-host.

 

He almost shed a tear from his left optic, and he wasn't even aiming to emotionally compel the witnesses!

 

Cassette-support charges were often _very_ appealing in court. There isn't a single mech that doesn't go soft for newsparks being neglected, under-fuelled, under-armoured and under-armed, because their co-creators found it very _nice_ to frag the delightful, multiple-ported carrier-host, but weren't willing to put up with alimony at the _results_.

 

The lawyercon puffed, adjusting his wig. He was the voice of the _innocent_. It was his duty to prosecute these infidels!

 

It was his _sparkright_ to charge 20% as well, he smirked: as the Last Lawyercon Standing, he re-read carefully the petition, smirking, calculating the amount of Shanix he would be able to coax from the accused, greed burning deep through his spark.

 

* * *

 

 

Sparkling with deep _electrical_ burn, Starscream crashed at maximum thrust into Megatron's own room _through_ the door, his left wing bearing a round, charred, smoking hole, as he screeches and flails his arms.

 

“IT BURNNNNS!!!!! BURRRNNNNS!!!”

 

Throwing himself in Megatron's washracks, the _hiss_ filling the room, Starscream, wet with solvent, finally brought his face out, leering.

 

“You, Shockwave, make sure the little _spawn_ _of Unicron_ will never _touch_ me again!!!”

 

Without ceremony, Shockwave came to the washrack, pulled the seeker's wing down to his height and brought the hole closer into view.

 

“So his datacables can jolt electrical charges strong enough to burn through metal. _Interesting_.”

 

“Interesting? _Interesting_?? I'll show you _interesting_!!!”

 

Screeching and jumping Shockwave, starting a catfight, Starscream kicked and turned as they rolled on the ground, spreading solvent around: the heavyweight heliformer mercilessly nipped at his wings, overpowering and straddling the seeker, finally tilting his head and unsubspacing the  _cortical psychic patch_ , crackling static before the air commander’s left optic.

 

“Starscream. If you so far as expand your EM-field to try to brush _his_ , I will have to show you things from _my perspective._ ”

 

Shockwave gave him one single _jolt_ of energon through his optic, as Starscream shrieked and flailed his arms in full fledged anger, going berserk.

 

“Horrendous, graceless, humongous glitch! If your little glitch ever try to come close, I’ll make sure he will regret having ever _touched_ my wing!”

 

Starscream literally reverted the game, changing positions and blindly clawing the heliformer, as Megatron blinked sheepishly and Soundwave shook his head, facepalming.

 

This was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

 

This was being a very long day.

 

Abandoned in the decepticon brig, tied up with strong traditional cuffs and stasis cuffs to a chair on the ground, he kept the whole day processing what Shockwave would do to him.

 

Shaking his head, he startled as if come from a dream, or a nightmare, _Strongarm_ strolled before him, his left arm roughly detached and brought in his right hand. He had to speak three times before Ratchet convinced himself the _mirage_ was true.

 

“I repeat. I require a _real_ medic's aid. Medically speaking, Hook is a glorified butcher, and Scrapper a well-meaning nurse. The other constructicons cannot repair living circuits.”

 

Ratchet shuddered: _Herr_ _Shockwave_ considers Hook a _butcher_!

 

“My Creation Microtron did his best, but his patch did not last a mere catfight with Starscream within Megatron's room.”

 

Ratchet bulged his optics. Creation? Catfight? Starscream? Megatron's room??

 

“Soundwave was an optic witness.”

 

Ratched blinked: the _things_ about Decepticon High Command he never wanted to know about.

 

“So you have _domestic_ problems that are clearly not mine. Why should I care???”

 

He shouldn’t but he did, instantly visualising a foursome between Megatron, Soundwave and Shockwave, with Starscream on a side, immediately shooing the mental image away, as Shockwave droned a not-reply.

 

“As every mech knows, we are in a Decepticon Trinebond, of which Starscream is not part, and Soundwave and I were sparked by our _Lord_ and released our creations at the same time.”

 

Ratchet stalled, turning a slow optic to the heliformer: Shockwave, sparked? Worse, releasing???

 

Last time he checked, _Strongarm_ certainly had no stowaway _sparklets_ latched, and as every cybertronian knows, sparking cycles last hundreds of centuries.

 

 

The math certainly was not adding: Ratchet snapped.

 

“So you're a carrier now! Why are you even telling me that???”

 

Tilting his head to the right, Shockwave this time answered.

 

“It is only fair that you should be informed of the circumstances since I would appreciate to have your capable hands under my _disposition_ , instead of the clear waste of a good _medic_ , with your head and them disposed off to the Prime.”

 

Ratchet minutely recalled Megatron’s earlier threat, and hurriedly nodded: he could investigate this unusual sparking later. For now, he had a more immediate worry.

 

“I suppose you will then vouch for me. What are my duties and obligations?”

 

“You suppose correctly; I have no logical reason not to require your capable _services_. Firstly, rights: as my direct subordinate you own considerable range of movement and action around the base, as long as you remain a _good_ , _obedient_ mech. Except for freedom on sensitive areas of the base, and the freedom to leave the premises, for now, until you prove yourself, practically anything within reason, and obviously, things that _can_ be provided.”

 

Ratchet stalled. This was slightly more freedom than Prowl conceded _Strongarm_ during the first year, donning a slow glance to the grossly amputated arm and to the patched stump.

 

“Is your _arm_ the reason you require a pair of forged, capable medical hands under your direct command?”

 

Shockwave stepped closer, lowering his face to the medic’s face level, very closely inspecting his face, nearly touching, suddenly leading a hand to Ratchet's medical panel, in a quick move opening it and connecting his medical version of the _cortical psychic pat_ _c_ _h_.

 

“I may also occasionally require a _test_ _subject_.”

 

Holding a curse at the mind-rape, Ratchet almost screamed the moment a ping in his systems informed him of an upload.

 

“What the frag are you _installing!??”_

 

“Your _slave_ program binding you to me, obviously. I cannot vouch for a mech I cannot control.”

 

As soon as the program was _in_ and running, Ratchet, angry beyond all grief, lashed through the mental link...

 

...only to be silenced by the letters showing in his HUD.

 

“ _I installed firewalls in your mind against Soundwave's probing. They provide automatic fake_ _lines of_ _thought for my bondmate to read, so he doesn't know your real ones in first place. I designed them specifically for your frame and personality, using your spark frequency. My creation was also fitted with a similar version.”_

 

Ratchet squinted, inquisitive.

 

“ _Chief Medical Officer, I am aware of your interest towards my Strongarm persona. Soundwave, if alerted, would serve you into a cybertronium platter to my Lord and Master Megatron.”_

 

Nod _._

 

“ _You understand then logically, since I require you alive and working under my command, why I could_ _no_ _t communicate you about this firewall before connecting into your systems and installing it.”_

 

Nod, nod.

 

“ _Apropos, the slave program binding you to me is very real, and ancient, ensuring complete dependence to your assigned master_ _._ _”_

 

Ratchet gritted his dental plates.

 

“ _Now, onto obligations: my basic rules as slavemaster:_ _do not miss work hours, do not try to run away, do not contact the autobots without my orders, do not obtain or pass Intel, and never disobey, betray or try to kill or overthrow me, my creation Microtron or my bondmates, nor any actions that might lead to any of the previous outcomes either directly or indirectly, even by remote possibility. You are expected to defend yourself as long as it does not conflict with the first amendments. You are not allowed to initiate conflicts that will result in your own termination. You are also neither permitted to self-terminate nor allow yourself to remain damaged much less refuse repairwork or patches, nor any other means of permanently ending the estate of slavery, unless expressly released by my direct command.”_

 

As usual, no loopholes to exploit. Why wasn't he surprised?

 

At that the medical connection was broken, and Ratchet crashed for what seemed to be an instant, before returning online, this time unshackled and alone in the brig, hours later, doors wide-open, and a note in his systems.

 

“ _Lo_ _gically, as I am familiar with your idiosyncrasies, as my slave, you bunk with me and my creation. My room is respectable and accesses private washracks; Shockwave out.”_

 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. He might have been comfortable _once_ berthing with _Strongarm_ , but what about with Shockwave and a _creation_ he never saw before?


	18. Before the Dawn

Before the dawn, instead of contemplating slumber, at bedtime in his Office, Optimus Prime's mind drifted to a happy place as he read the 'Book of Primus', the instant Technotor _awoke_ , bright lights beaming from every single mirror in his plating, deafening music filling the room.

 

 _Sighing_ loudly, the Prime rested his head over his arms in the desk as the disco globe _spoke._

 

“...carrier?”

 

Optimus glowered at the shiny autobot with the corner of his optics, being solemnly ignored by the newspark, who transformed halfway down from the ceiling, stretching and sassing around the room, shaking his booty and pirouetting to soundless music.

 

“We must discuss about tonight's party. Prowl forbade me of ever trying to set up the Lab again, so we need to find a room big enough for us to fit the whole fleet in. How about here?”

 

Optimus blinked. Us? _Here?_

 

“Technotor. My life is under chaos. The _Matrix_ no longer _talks_ to me, My _beloved nephew_ Hot Rod is a disappointment and decided running away with a _neutral_ to spite me just because he can, the autobot chief medical officer also ran away after a fragging _decepticon_ , Prowl wants a brig upgrade and is currently mad at my alleged lack of leadership skills and threatened leaving to the decepticons as well, Elita-1 hates me and I fear the feeling is mutual, and to make things worse, there is a certain _creation_ that takes up all my energy despite not even being around for a full day yet. Why would I even want to commemorate?”

 

Technotor stopped dancing, holding his chin and thinking for a while, then opening his arms wide, and jumping in place, Armin Van Buuren’s _Intense_ _techno_ anthem playing deafeningly high from his systems.

 

“Because Trance is Life and it would bring a smile up on your plates and behind this serious, _sour_ battlemask?”

 

He winked, _trancing_ in place waving up and down with both arms to an imaginary crowd as Optimus pointed a finger at him and shook his fist at his direction, exasperated.

 

“I see it now. I know what you need! Why don’t you go refuel at the rec room. You must be hungry, with all the energon you’re wasting in this thing you call _dance_.”

 

Not getting the cue, the disco-globe shook his head.

 

“Nope, it’s not dance, it’s _T_ _rance._ There’s a great difference.”

 

He nodded solemnly at no-one: Optimus rolled his optics.

 

“Technotor. What did I say about _not wanting a party_ that you didn’t understand?”

 

“What’s there not to want?? I could this time continue from the eighties to the nineties, what do you think? Remix of _Transformers, more than meets the eye!_? It could be _Intense_.”

 

Optimus sighs.

 

Why the _Matrix_ saw fit to gift him such a _party mechling_ as a creation, the Prime would never know: it almost seemed like it had gone insane or out of wits.

 

If only it properly _responded_ him, like she used to do, instead of only sending cryptic _feelings_ , he might be able to _ask_.

 

* * *

 

 

Asking himself exactly how to get at his master’s room, Ratchet found out it wouldn’t be a so difficult task considering Shockwave provided him the full layout map of the underbase.

 

Were he still an autobot, he might have been gleeful at the prospect of providing them such a map, but as it was, not only he was forbidden of contacting the autobots, he also happened to want nothing currently with them, and couldn’t care less: it hadn’t been the way he wanted things to be, he had not been welcomed with the _elegance_ he expected, but everything considered, he had been taken into the Decepticons afterall, no matter the circumstances, and was going to make the most out of it.

 

Snorting as he glared down his own chest, he ran a finger through the _painted_ decepticon symbol currently adorning the place where he once held the autobot one, recalling a single true fact in the end: branding was a high honour, and decepticons never brand _slaves_.

 

Pondering about exactly _what_ the slave program did to him, since he didn’t feel any different, Ratchet decided to run _diagnostics_ as soon as he finished getting to Shockwave’s room, passing by a blessedly empty corridor, soon reaching his intended destination.

 

For an instant wondering if he should knock, he snorted the instant the door came open at the mere presence of his spark frequency, and a small mechling peeked up at him from his sitting position on the ground, suddenly standing up and approaching, clawed hands holding a tiny datapad against his chestplates, and what could only be described as a _tentacle_ worming out of his back.

 

“Are you the office’s chief medic?”

 

Ratchet squinted at the small mech measuring almost half his height, shuddering at the thought of seeing a _juvenile_ version of a traditional _Empurata._

 

“Something like that.”

 

He stepped in, passing by the mechling and taking a perfunctory inspection of the room, staring at the double berth in the middle of it, covered by a purple mesh, then shifting his optics to a smaller, single one right besides it, a datapad over the mesh, walking towards it.

 

“Carrier told me you’d come to repair him and that you would then stay.”

 

Taking a brief glance back at the mechling, he nodded, unwilling to explain he was a code-programmed _slave_ and didn’t really have a choice, taking the datapad and turning it on.

 

“ _Greetings, Chief Medical Officer. I am currently busy on an errand for my Lord. I suppose you already saw my creation, Microtron, who I left in the room under recharge protocols, so do not awake him. Apropos, this should be your berth. When I return I will bring your energon rations. Shockwave out.”_

 

Squinting at the very awake _kid_ currently staring at him, Ratchet rolled his optics, this time walking to the desk and contemplating the scratched, dented, patched and grossly amputated arm he recalled so well about.

 

“Is it true you were carrier’s boss?”

 

He nodded, sitting on the chair and taking hold of the arm, focusing on the shoulder articulation, transforming his right index into a heated scalpel, cutting through the white metal in the grossly welded scar-line at the shoulder, right where the purple cross rested, unsurprised to find it was only surface armour.

 

“But now he’s your boss, right?”

 

He nodded further, cutting through one more layer of the scarred piece of under-armour and finally reached what was supposed to be _Strongarm’s_ original paintjob, in black, also retaining a silvery scar.

 

Opening the shoulder’s last welded mesh and assessing the degree of inside damage, immediately recognising the adaptations already made in what had probably been the previous repairwork that Starscream certainly ripped out, Ratchet entered medical protocols and started to work.

 

Pondering he could do very few to improve the current degree of 70% function of the limb in a hurry and without spare pieces at hand, he made sure to make the shoulder’s cabling ready for implantation, pulling a congealed string of processed energon from within the main energon line, setting it aside for later disposal, suddenly stopping as the very curious minicon, on the tip of his pedes, slowly moved his camera-head and cycled open his giant optic at his work then shifted to the string of congealed energon, worming out of his back one of his tentacles and poking it with a single feeler.

 

“Carrier’s gelled processed energon! This is so gross!”

 

Ratchet couldn’t agree more.

 

“Can I have it?”

 

“If you shut up, you can.”

 

Microtron then beamed and yelped one _Yay!,_ deploying the four feelers out of the datacable and gripped on the string, _suckling_ it inside in one go.

 

Blinking in near revulsion as he mixed the current sight with the memory of _Strongarm_ siphoning energon from the dead and fuelling with it, he shook his head as Microtron finally fully planted himself on Ratchet’s right thigh, poking with one single feeler out with his tentacle the rest of the shoulder cabling.

 

“I have a feeling I don’t want to know what you’re doing.”

 

Rotating his neck 180 degrees until his single optic faced the medic, Microtron blurted a not-reply.

 

“I’m hungry.”

 

And rotated his head back to the arm, looking for _more_.

 

* * *

 

 

Looking for more in life than _surviving_ , Knock-Out opened up shop to find Reflector, the single unit, knocking.

 

“I’m not buffed up enough for one more photographic session. Return at another time!”

 

Almost closing the door in Reflector’s collective face, Knock-Out stopped once the mini-gestalt placed his (their?) foot in the door, entering the shop and handing him a datapad.

 

Groaning and taking it, he gave it a perfunctory glance, immediately gaping.

 

“Is that so?”

 

Reflector nodded. Knock-Out smirked, re-reading the datapad as _Roddy the Hot_ came from within the recesses of the mod shop dangling his multiple pierced chestplate kibble, peeking at it.

 

“Wow. I never thought we would ever see one of those again.”

 

Knock-Out released the datapad in Hot Rod’s hand, turning to his currently quite ill equipped shop, since business had been a success recently, and his currently owned mods, pondering which would be the best to install into the two prospective _brides_.

 

A proper, documented Sparkbonding Ceremony was something mechs rarely do nowadays, but apparently they would soon have one to go.

 

* * *

 

 

“One to go!”

 

Wheeljack hid behind the desk, battlemask on, optics off, a hand in each side panel, waiting for the incoming KABOOM, which never came.

 

Smirking underneath his mask, he slowly stood up, glad with his accomplished task: his _plot device unit II_ did not explode at assembly!

 

It certainly called for celebration, he pondered, glad for having been let out by Prowl, who was currently obsessively inside Ratchet’s quarters gathering _evidence_.

 

He then called for Perceptor, blissfully analysing samples in microscope mode, completely unaware he could have been blown up just a minute ago.

 

“Hey, Percy. Wanna hang up the globe?”

 

Suddenly stopping, Perceptor raised his scope up to focus on Wheeljack.

 

“I’m afraid for that we’ll have to ask for permission to Optimus Prime.”

 

* * *

 

 

Optimus Prime sighed, currently having given up on trying to make Technotor, who had just asked for his opinion on a few _trance_ samples he wanted to mix (and to which Optimus couldn’t care less), just sit still and _stop._

 

Almost missing Ratchet’s no-nonsense approach, wondering a few hits of the wrench in his creation’s head wouldn’t hurt, Optimus still couldn’t believe the autobot medic _ran away_.

 

How dared he get away from _him_? Just because he and Ratchet weren’t supposed to be together anymore, it didn't mean he was allowed to go away.

 

At least nothing hazardous was happening, and they didn't need a medic immediately. At least the Earth rotates around its axis and the sun, and the continents still float over the magma. At least no meteor threatens to extinguish life.

 

At least the Decepticons don't have the Matrix.

 

That was the moment his comm decided to beep, as Technotor hung around, vibrating in place, humming, expectantly looking at the flat screen, and Optimus answered the call.

 

“Optimus speaking.”

 

The visual feed flickers and Optimus groans, Megatron's face appearing onscreen, in a mock salute, snickering.

 

“Cut out the pleasantries, Megatron. Just stick to what you want to say.”

 

Raising an inquisitive optics ridge, Megatron scoffed.

 

“ _Biting today, are we? Very well then. I just wanted you to take a look on this.”_

 

The camera view changed to a white chestplate hung open, purple background, showing a golden structure with silver handles, a swirling blue crystal inside. It then cut back to Megatron's face.

 

“ _Breathless and startled, Optimus Prime??”_

 

The Prime choked over the table. Technotor flapped him with the Book of Primus.

 

“...but.. but.. It's impossible!”

 

Afterall, the Matrix was indeed with him. Optimus even gave life to the disco-globe with her!

 

Megatron, uncaring for Optimus’ conflicted thoughts, kept his cool, smirking widely.

 

“ _Let's just say I've had inside help. Megatron out!”_

 

The call died on screen, as Optimus passed a hand over his optics and battlemask. There was a traitor among them. Thinking for a shameful long couple of minutes, the autobot leader joined the facts, then turned to Technotor, that still happened to be by his side, still flapping him with the book of Primus.

 

Ripping the book out of his creation’s hands, he held it against his own chest protectively.

 

Somehow, Megatron came across an exact visual copy of the Matrix.

 

Shaking his head and remembering the lost _paperweight_ , that was an exact life-size replica of the Matrix, and recalling recent events, Optimus came to a distasteful conclusion.

 

Megatron was playing him a _prank_!

 

Staring down at his own chest, the Matrix _growling_ low, almost rumbling in a low frequency and very displeased with her _host_ , Optimus almost yelled at her for refusing to _speak._

 

Why wouldn’t she _talk_? She could only be offended at the sight Megatron provided. That was the only explanation that made sense.

 

Instantly recalling _who_ had recently left for the decepticons, pieces falling into place, Optimus facepalmed, as Technotor raised an optic ridge.

 

“I think I know who is the _responsible_ for this _prank_. Can you imagine _who?_ ”

 

Technotor scratched his head, as Optimus gritted on his dental plates, recalling Prowl’s sound advice of letting Strongarm _go_ years ago, pondering at the chain of events that took place since then.

 

“I should have seen it coming. I'm afraid we have all been played on... by Ratchet!!”

 

* * *

 

 

Ratchet, contemplating the back of Microtron’s head as the _kid_ looked plain frustrated at the now clot-free fuel lines, shook his head, unsure if he felt pity or relief at him having found nothing else to ingest, the instant the room’s door whirred open and heavy steps followed in.

 

As the mechling practically jumped out of his lap and nearly tripped on the datacable running towards the newcomer, Ratchet turned in time to see his _master_ being smothered in a bear-hug, absolutely not replying it, very slowly turning his head between his creation and the medic.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I see Microtron is up.”

 

A dark grey datacable probing his remaining arm, Shockwave stared down at his creation.

 

“We must reprogram your irregular recharging subroutines. Again.”

 

He insistently tugged on Shockwave’s dangling chain and hook with his claws, looking up hopefully.

 

“I’m hungry. Can I have more?”

 

Ratchet cringed at the memory, as Shockwave, mute for the longest three seconds of history, shifted a glance at the open and half-repaired arm over the desk with its energon lines hanging in the open, finally _understanding_ , head dipping down in a nod.

 

“I was not aware this would be a _required_ predicament. Fascinating.”

 

Unsubspacing one full energon cube, he handed it to his creation.

 

“I am not currently capable of providing you with what your inadequately crafted frame requires, but I am positive this cube will calm your tanks for the while. Fuel. Do not spill.”

 

Microtron tilted his head, slightly disappointed, but obeyed, jumping to the main berth with the cube between both claws and dipping one single datacable in, as Shockwave walked to the desk and took a long glance at the arm, then turned to the medic.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I am more than ready to have my arm back, and once it is finished, you shall prepare one of my secondary energon lines to be capable of reverse-fuelling my creation with my own processed energon, on demand.”

 

Ratchet blinked, not immediately jumping to obey, and called _Strongarm_ ’s specs to the forefront of his mind, a few easily accessible energon lines getting highlighted on screen as Shockwave still droned to the walls.

 

“Soundwave’s creations are totally dependent on his enriched fuel, their juvenile frames being unable to properly process crude energon, even low grade. Whatever they ingest tends to be wasted, especially the high-grade his twins usually steal and think no one knows about.”

 

Nodding to the medic as he fleeted a glance at his creation, who had already drained the _whole_ cube and now flopped under recharge on a side, datacable still inside the empty vessel, Shockwave walked there and removed him from the berth, placing him in the single’s one.

 

“It is unfortunate you will have to work on sub-optimal conditions however, for I do not yet have a slab or a Lab ready, but I trust your ability to operate under adversity.”

 

And flopped on his own berth, looking like a dead corpse waiting for disassembly.

 

“Your usefulness begins now. Show me what your more than capable hands can do. I am _ready._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you ready?”

 

First Aid, standing before the Ark’s main entrance on his own, shook his head as Blades gritted on his dental plates.

 

He received with sour contempt Optimus’ orders for his bonded to immediately return from break; who cares if Ratchet and that Strongarm glitch left? How could the Prime not understand that his First was on break and that as a gestalt they needed to remain close?

 

“Because if you truly aren’t, I’m _kidnapping_ you away.”

 

First Aid blinked at the memory of the time Blades kidnapped him, blushing furiously under his mask, shifting meekly on his feet.

 

“Perhaps I still have some time before the next sunrise.”


	19. The sun always rises on TV

Sunrise having come by for some hours as the decepticon base remained under perennial darkness on the ocean’s floor, Ratchet onlined his optics, the memories from the previous night surfacing in a haze.

 

He remembered being commanded to start working, and work he did.

 

Doing very quick job of re-implanting his master’s arm and fusing the armour closed, Ratchet recalled contemplating the scarred left shoulder no longer bearing any white painting much less the medical cross, manually shaping it in the likeness of the right one, as the unsettling, immobile heliformer merely turned his visor and contemplated the craft, silently.

 

It was a task so menial he could do it with his optics closed, but he didn’t, occasionally getting lost in the dark blue visor that clearly was not focusing on anything but the reshaping.

 

Dimming his optics as he shifted on the single berth, facing away from the wall and turning to find Shockwave now under recharge, left arm in place, he couldn’t help glancing at the newly established glowing energon fuel line currently flowing from the scientist into his creation, also silently recharging, one facing the other in the main berth.

 

It would have been a demure sight if it weren’t for the circumstances: setting up one secondary energon line to divert it into a permanent plug-and-play connection involved having access to his master’s main interface panel, at the upper ventral plates, which basically meant Ratchet worked literally face-to-face to Shockwave’s blessedly dry and clean port.

 

Very aware that this was the additional double-purpose interface array, Ratchet did a visual medical scan to confirm what he already suspected: there was no mistake at the fabrication date, followed by its techspecs with rate of electrical charge transfer and safety calliper stretch dimension widths, all matching to date and model, rolling in his HUD.

 

Having confirmed this is _Shockwave’s_ ancient, original array, that had been transferred into the female shell, Ratchet shook his head: the old Cyclops is indeed even more insane than ever expected.

 

Ratchet offlined his optics and couldn’t help recalling the purple inner walls, the purple bifolded, dry port and his depressurised and slotted interface cable (properly and respectably stored, not hanging out like _shareware_ ), in the upper portion of his ventral plates plates, in stark contrast to the outer white of the borrowed shell, as he worked into repurposing the surface energon line.

 

Obviously, he shouldn’t be affected, for he had seen many ports in his medical experience, and his share of them during better, merrier times, before everything went to Hell and he met Orion Pax, and then the war begun, and.

 

And.

 

Back to the present, scowling at the laid heliformer, then at his own traitorous memories, Ratchet stood up and caught on his half-energon cube, leftover from last night’s rations, sitting on the desk and starting to drink it, recalling Shockwave mentioned they had _work_ to do in the morning, clearing his vocaliser and asking to the walls what would be his orders for the day.

 

Instantly turning his visor ON, Shockwave spoke.

 

“You shall go to the Constructicons and wait for me there. I am not yet finished.”

 

Scoffing as he fleeted a last glance at Shockwave, the image of the _carrier_ feeding his creation his own energon, he bowed exaggeratedly, guzzled the rest of the cube and stomped out.

 

* * *

 

 

Stomping out of her quarters, Elita-1 couldn’t stop thinking on the Prime’s own creation with the Matrix and on him blatantly refusing her.

 

She shouldn’t feel angry, but she did. Who the Matrix thought she was to just give him a creation, like this? A disco globe out of anything else!

 

Not that she would have wanted to get sparked: she was never the motherly type.

 

Being taken out of the succession line however was beyond offensive: of course, she knew a sparkbond was for life, for good or worse, and that the Prime would not break theirs, no matter the circumstances, but still.

 

Were she on Cybertron, she would by now have gone to the Hallowed Halls at the Church of Iacon in search of a surviving priest, to consult with him, or her, on advice.

 

How to make sure the Prime would remain invested in their bond, now he himself said the Matrix is no longer thirsty for them to merge, since she knew very well their union was a sham from the start?

 

Not that she cared for the bond in itself, but she cared for her current position, and without the Priestdom around, with only the Matrix and his own head as guide, she feared the Prime might eventually decide to disfavour her in place of a new, more _desired_ mate.

 

Smirking as she recalled how Ratchet left, instantly glad he was no longer around and there would be no chance of a fallback, she walked to her private washracks, filling her tube with pure desert petrol oil, stepping in.

 

The Prime had left her very angry and she needed to _relax_.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ya need to relax.”

 

Prowl kept taking photos of Ratchet’s messed up quarters, cataloguing everything, doing his best to ignore Jazz.

 

“I could help ya to relax.”

 

Jazz winked: Prowl pointed his hand to the door.

 

“I forbid you of disturbing the crime scene. Keep behind the yellow tape.”

 

Jazz shook his head, stepping back out of the room, this time talking from out of the door.

 

“Ya stressed out. I can get you very legitimate engex from Maccadam’s Oil House.”

 

Prowl squinted.

 

“And I can get you to the brig.”

 

Jazz snorted.

 

“Ya wouldn’t.”

 

Prowl droned, impassive, starting to catalogue the pictures and videos into a security file ready to be sent to Red Alert.

 

“It’s _very_ empty.”

 

Smirking wide as he imagined something else being very empty and needing filled, Jazz lounged against the open door, arms folded, the SIC turning on his heels, stopping by his side, scowling down at him.

 

“The _brig_ is very empty, and Engex is illegal.”

 

And handed him a fine, walking away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Walking away from his master’s room and in-venting once, Ratchet made sure to enter the decepticon medbay, the Constructicon’s bay, slowly, looking around in a mix of curiosity and revulsion: the bay is messy, instruments with dried energon laid over a table without much logic or care, piles of cannibalised parts on a corner, and two ground troopers waiting to have dents removed from armour, Scrapper currently working on one of them.

 

Scavenger, as usual on guard duty, exhibiting proudly dry energon-stained collar of wires around his neck, clearly come from the insides of a living mech, waved him a hello.

 

“Hi! Nice to see you again. Did you know you look a hell lot like that autobot medic, Ratchet?”

 

Ratchet held his disgust at the morbid _souvenir_ and rolled his optics, exhibiting his _painted_ decepticon symbol (slaves were never _branded_ ) and his red crosses, as Scavenger beamed.

 

“Wow!!! Such coincidence! Not only you look like Ratchet, you are also a medic!”

 

Ratchet flashed his best smile. This decepticon was so gullible it hurts. It was almost not funny to mess with him.

 

“No wonder _Commander_ Shockwave took you as his new slave _._ The likeness is too much.” he saluted vehemently “Such _honour_. What wouldn’t I do to be in your place.”

 

Scavenger managed to sigh, as Ratchet raised an optic ridge.

 

“Would you actually _want_ to trade places? To _serve_ Shockwave?”

 

“In a sparkbeat. Don’t ever doubt my devotion to... Commander Shockwave!!!”

 

Scavenger instantly saluted, ignoring the medic.

 

Shockwave, appearing behind Ratchet, having just come from his creation’s presence, recalled how he cut his processed energon flow off the fuelling line, then disconnected from his creation, receiving the definite _ping_ of request from the _decepticon matrix_ for fuel herself.

 

Having already taken rations for himself before arriving, he visually dismissed Scavenger, as the medic looked at his right, stepping aside, allowing his _master_ to fully come in, paddles rotating at each step.

 

“Greetings, Constructicons: by our Lord's decree, I am to take over a part of your bay.”

 

Scrapper instantly dented out the poor grounder's armour, generating a screech: Longhaul and Bonecrusher, sorting parts, stopped: Mixmaster stuttered and mixed two chemicals at random, generating a purple coloured smoke: Scavenger tilted his head, confused. Ratchet poked Shockwave.

 

“Do you think it's wise to just barge in and declare you now own a piece of their place? They are four and...”

 

“Correction. They are six. I am the creator of the concept of a _gestalt_ and turned them into Devastator, and I am Cybertron's Guardian and Prior, First Lieutenant – Chief Science Officer, Second Mate and Fourth in Command. They owe me their current status of _team_. I outrank them: many times. All facts accounted for, they _will_ obey.” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Come here.”

 

Ratchet did: Shockwave fit his medical _cortical psychic patch_ cable into his lateral port, uploading the blueprints for the Science Lab first into the medic, then into an unsuspecting Scavenger, who shivered, then blinked surprised as it came.

 

“Constructicons. Unless you wish me to _upload_ into all and each of you, take from your gestalt link the blueprints I just handed Scavenger, and start working. I want it ready by the next day. I need one slab, and some supplies according to the plans set. As my personal slave, the Chief Medical Officer Ratchet represents my authority and will call me when it is ready. Shockwave out.”

 

Scavenger saluted, rushing to his gestalt members, to hand them the blueprints, as Ratchet, resigned, stared out of the window, staring at a school of passing fish, and Shockwave turned to leave, paddles rotating slowly as he walked out.

 

* * *

 

Out of the main room, Soundwave sat at the controls, keeping tab of all the security footage of the undersea base and its surroundings, receiving live feed from cameras and his symbionts, the only one currently still synchronising being Menace.

 

The new cassetticon was still receiving imprint on her basic functions. While Ravage was best at infiltration, Frenzy was the best hacker, Rumble was the wrecker, Buzzsaw was the strategist, Laserbeak as video and sound footage, he didn't yet know where to place Menace yet.

 

“Bonded Soundwave. I believe you already met my newspark.”

 

Soundwave nodded, typing at the console and sending a silent _ping_ through their comms, to which Shockwave promptly replied.

 

“I came to request permission to leave my creation under your strong, capable hands for the moment.”

 

The newspark stared directly at Soundwave's face with his huge camera head, red optic unblinking.

 

“Shockwave’s slave: busy?”

 

“The Chief Medical Officer is coordinating the construction of the new Lab with Devastator's gestalt team, at my orders.”

 

Soundwave squinted his optics underneath his visor.

 

“Soundwave: busy. Looks like willing to sparksit???”

 

Shockwave stared neutrally ahead.

 

“I have not meant offense. I tried, but Microtron’s makeshift shell impedes me of properly force-linking his systems and reprogramming his core and defining new functions the _easy_ way. I can upload small patches and programs, but that’s all so far. As such, forced by contingency, I politely request that my creation stays with you to learn the old fashioned way basic communication skills while the lab is being built. Once it is up I will need him ready to speed up our Lord's future research.”

 

Soundwave scanned him for signs of ill intent, finding not a single flicker of his EM-field out of place, and their sparkbond blocked as usual, being also unable to read his Shadowplayed mind.

 

Why does he keep bonded to such a selfish bondmate anyway?

 

Oh, sure. Shockwave’s clinically perfect _sparkmerges_ and ever efficient _interfacing_.

 

Frustrated, Soundwave kept his position in the console as Shockwave nodded back and turned on his heels to go, leaving a curious _newspark_ right by the communications officer’s side, single optic hungrily _glaring_ at his left shoulder.

 

“What does this button do?”

 

Soundwave held still, asking himself what he ever did to deserve it, as Microtron pointed, never touching, to the button in his left shoulder.

 

“Microtron: desist. Your objective: panel buttons, not Soundwave's buttons.”

 

If a faceless mech could pout, that would be precisely what Microtron would be doing now: Soundwave sighed, stretching his neck, cracking his fingers, then releasing a third navy-blue datacable, connecting it to the panel’s slot, a myriad of windows popping up at the holoscreen, functions running, as the tapedeck lounged on his chair, placing both hands behind his head.

 

“Microtron: owns tentacled datacables. Do same.”

 

He awkwardly wormed a single datacable out, the only one he learned to use so far, feelers wide open, touching the panel superficially and randomly, probing the slot with his feelers acting like very thin fingers, ineffectually.

 

“Microtron: insert datacable into slot: once inside, latch feelers against walls.”

 

He tilted his head, recollecting the feelers inside the cable and obeying, startling as the four feelers met the insides of the slot at the same time, reflexively recalling them back.

 

“It _tickles_!”

 

Soundwave, ever patient, repeated the command: Microtron obeyed again and this time giggled uncontrollably.

 

“Open HUD and connect into ship’s systems. Ignore _itching_.”

 

The _kid_ cackled loudly, unable to follow through the instruction, as Soundwave looked up and _sighed_. Why him. There was a _reason_ he never used his own CNA into any of his creation’s shells before.

 

Datacables were a _pain in the aft_ to master.

 

Wondering he didn’t want to waste much time teaching that and recalling Shockwave mentioned the kid could have programs and patches installed, Soundwave nodded to himself.

 

“Microtron: open lateral dataport.”

 

He kept cackling, not listening; Soundwave then wormed out his own fourth datacable, touching one single feeler at the kid’s connected cable and zapping it once with charge, forcing the datacable out of the slot, as Microtron finally stopped squirming and rested against the panel.

 

Soundwave waited for him to recover, then repeated the request, being finally obeyed: latching it on the newspark's lateral port, he ran a quick anti-virus and placed a firewall between them.

 

Instructions for tentacled datacable functions rolled in Microtron's HUD, an exact copy from Soundwave's. After a brief info overflow, the connection was cut, and the tapedeck tilted his head, observing the newspark hold himself against the computer panel.

 

“Microtron: status?”

 

He nodded, straightening himself. Soundwave, stepping aside, ordered him once more to connect to the panel with all his _spark_.

 

* * *

 

 

Megatron's spark plummeted as his computer panel went haywire, the video feed invading the screen, thick looping electric crackles coming up from the Communication's Room, quickly rushing there,  _staring_.

 

“Microtron? Soundwave??”

 

The camera-head mech looked down, ashamed, as twelve grey datacables encircled the panels, his own shell and even Soundwave's neck and hands, practically bondaging the blue tapedeck.

 

The navy blue mech was spitting static, his own four cables flailing in the air, as Megatron shook his head.

 

“I'm waiting.”

 

“Microtron: activated gladiator program for cables.”

 

“I... see.” he poked the slim black and grey cable clearly belonging to the newspark, raising one optic ridge as the cable waved him a 'hello' back “And _who_ gave him the _gladiator_ commands for datacables, anyway?”

 

Soundwave kept his blank stare ahead. Microtron stared guiltily between them, as slowly, one by one, he recalled his cables back.

 

Megatron groaned.

 

Finally hanging free, recollecting his own cables, Soundwave stood up, dusting off his boxy frame, as Megatron remained, hands behind his back, staring at them.

 

“You two. War Room. As much as I left the gladiatorial ring, looks like I will need to take on _students_ again. Ready the cassettes and tell Shockwave to come.”

 

“Yes, Lord Megatron.” Soundwave bowed his head.

 

* * *

 

Head aching, Hook stared at the walls being built in the middle of his Medbay.

 

“ _What_??”

 

Ratchet turns to see Hook place a half-consumed energon-cube on a slab. Scavenger turned, waving a hello.

 

“Oh, Hook, welcome back!” he hugged Ratchet over his shoulders, bringing him close “Have you met _him_! He looks like Ratchet and is also a medic!”

 

Ratchet rolled his optics. Hook stomped, shoving him from Scavenger's arms.

 

“No, you stupid, it _is_ Ratchet!”

 

Scavenger had a confused look, counting on his fingers, as Hook turned to yell at the other medic, repeatedly poking the painted decepticon insignia on his chest.

 

“You'd better explain what you are doing here with _this_ badge!”

 

“I'm Shockwave's slave now.” he shrugged “I'm only following orders.”

 

“Orders?”

 

“Yeah, Hook, don't worry, I was supervising him!”

 

Hook blinked, as Ratchet snickered and patted Scavenger.

 

“Tell him I was doing everything right!”

 

“Hook, he was doing everything right!”

 

Scavenger beamed. Ratchet smiled. Hook bellowed.

 

“Scavenger, you dim-witted light bulb, were he digging out a crocodile-filled moat right now you would still think it was all right!!”

 

“I like crocodiles. And moats. Can we have one?” the confused decepticon scratched his head.

 

Hook, enraged, screeched and chased both he and Ratchet out of the medbay, as the other constructicons cheered, immediately stopping to work.

 

* * *

 

 

Overwhelmed with work, completely bothered by Megatron’s last display, squinting at his prancing creation in the background of the room, ignoring the _battlemasked_ mech before him, Optimus cursed: he was slagging tired of _medics_ and their problems.

 

“So, I am here, and asking for medical reinforcements.”

 

First Aid fidgeted, stealing a glance at the pirouetting disco-globe mechling, deciding not to _ask_ , as the Prime donned him a cold glare.

 

“Which is why I promoted you to Chief Medical Officer, and summoned you, First aid. You are officially out of the Protectobots now _._ ”

 

First aid twitched an optic ridge.

 

“But. We're Defensor. We're a gestalt. I can't just leave them _forever_ and assume the medbay.”

 

“Yes you can, _Chief Medical Officer_ First Aid.”

 

“But but but... don't you already have Hoist?”

 

“He is a mechanic turned basic maintenance medic: you are our last _graduated_ surgical medical professional. No buts. You are the _reinforcements_ and you stay in the medbay.”

 

“Please, Prime, at least one assistant. Let me bring Blades.” he shifted his visor to the side, ashamed “I can teach him to be my nurse. He would even _like_ that.”

 

Optimus blinked. Technotor jumped atop his desk, _played_ an invisible guitar in the air, then walked away screeching one _YEAH!!!_ as First Aid merely followed him with his visor and Optimus finally shook his head.

 

“Absolutely no.”

 

“But Blades is my _bonded_.”

 

“No assistants. Especially not _helicopters._ Every rotary mech is _insane_! The last helicopter we had around turned up to be a psychopathic slaughterer. There is a reason autobots aren't supposed to fly!”

 

“Strongarm wasn't that bad once you go past the lack of ethics, the morbidity and the endless datapads and the droning. He knew what he was doing, at least. He even _calibrated_ my hands once.”

 

Optimus shifted a side glance as First Aid looked slightly _guilty_ for a second.

 

“It felt _good._ ”

 

“First Aid. Out.”

 

“But what about my assistant.”

 

“OUT!”

 

The poor, white ambulance scurried away.

 

* * *

 

 

The _poor,_ whiteambulance scurried away through the corridors of the undersea base, wondering about how to best contact his current master.

 

Not that he wanted to receive a new task, but Shockwave's orders were so thorough and well-knit that he didn't have loopholes for anything but refuelling on his ration, recharging, and crashing into their shared quarters waiting to give him the report on the unfinished status of the Lab.

 

As such, Ratchet, already in root-mode, had no choice but to enter Shockwave's room, finding it empty except for the default datapad over his single berth.

 

“ _Wait for my return. I look forward to your slave synch this cycle._ _Shockwave_ _out_ _.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Shockwave.”

 

The datapad in Megatron's hands glowed, as the expressionless helicopter walked in, gathering his surroundings. He had been summoned by Soundwave with the cryptic information that _his_ _creation needed to train._

 

Rumble and Frenzy were sparring, as Microtron watched with curiosity the exchange of punches and jabs: Laserbeak and Buzzsaw refused participating, remaining perched atop Megatron's shoulders, as did Ravage, napping on Megatron’s feet, and Menace currently buzzed, unintelligently flying around Soundwave's head.

 

“My Lord, may I enquire the reason for this?”

 

Instantly hearing carrier’s monotone, Microtron literally jumped Shockwave’s arms, getting held by reflex as the scientist looked straight into his giant optic and Megatron spoke.

 

“Apparently Soundwave gave Microtron his _gladiator_ program for datacables.”

 

Shockwave minutely bowed his head, looking down at his expectant creation.

 

“I am certain our bonded had his best intentions.” he turned to Megatron, releasing his creation on the ground “My Lord, I politely request to be the first to fight Microtron.”

 

Soundwave raised an optic ridge, the beastformers couldn't care less, Rumble and Frenzy stopped sparring and shared a glance, as Microtron tilted his head to the left, clicking his claws in anxiety and Megatron, rising an optic ridge, took a long glance at Shockwave’s dangling hook and chain, waving a dismissive hand.

 

“I can’t see why not. I’d like to see you try.” he snorted, recalling Shockwave was never able to fight or shoot.

 

Walking away from his creation into the centre of the room, Shockwave reached for his chain and hook and swung it around his right side.

 

“Now. This is an exercise. Hit me with your datacables. I will take defensive stance.”

 

Microtron cycled open his camera-optic, nodded, and claws clenched, EM-field flaring in hesitation, sent one single cable undulating the air and rotating around its own axis towards Shockwave's face.

 

Evading the datacable with a flourish, rotating the hook and chain now above his head in tandem with the rotation of his rotor blades on his back and stepping backwards, Shockwave captured the cable and rolled to the side, pulling the tentacle with him and yanking Microtron along, both finally crashing one atop the other, motionless on the ground.

 

Megatron facepalmed as the mechling shook his head to both sides, slowly trying to extract the datacable from his carrier’s tightly coiled chain, and Shockwave attempted to sit, a bent paddle on his back.

 

Getting suddenly hit by twin coiled cables on the left side of his mask, Shockwave came to the ground again, chain and hook getting ripped out by the first cable, turning to face the three undulating tentacles right above him.

 

Turning his back on his creation, he felt three of his rotor blades get gripped, idly pondering he chose well in making them detachable, letting their connectors loose.

 

Getting hit by the whiplash of the three datacables bringing each a paddle right to his chestplates and limbs, cracking his LED screen chest, Microtron crashed at Megatron’s feet, the helicopter blades now rotating aimlessly on the ground besides him.

 

By now having managed to catch Soundwave’s _positive_ attention, with the tapedeck staring through squinting optics behind his dimmed visor and actually analysing the sparring, Microtron stood up, revealing a fourth datacable from his back.

 

Recognising the pre-programmed attack sequence Microtron was about to use, Soundwave turned to see Shockwave, now armed with his two hands holding his last unbent, detachable paddle, running towards his own creation swinging it like a mace, the very instant the mechling captured each one of his carrier’s limbs with a single tentacled cable, slamming him against the ground and glaring at him from above, the last paddle flying against the wall and impaling itself in it.

 

Staring up at his riled up creation, Shockwave, trapped, dipped his head in a nod, EM-field flat.

 

“Excellent. Now, bring up a _fifth_ cable through my cockpit right into my sparkchamber and jolt it with charge.”

 

Megatron now bulged his optics, about to step in to interfere, being held back by Soundwave, who simply nodded and pointed at the two sparring mechs.

 

Shifting his glare to them, Megatron contemplated Microtron get very still, holding Shockwave’s limbs firmly, twitching his optic and releasing a stuttering electrical blurt, his now broken chestplate-screen glowing with the barely readable Blue Screen of Death, finally crashing down with his giant optic cycled closed, limp on the ground.

 

Unfazed by the event and apparently uncaring to the glitch his creation presented, Shockwave extricated himself off the now lifeless tentacles, walking around the room and collecting his rotor blades, as Megatron growled and Soundwave nodded, knowingly.

 

“Soundwave’s gladiator program: especially tailored to Soundwave’s frame.”

 

Having clicked the last bent paddle in, Shockwave now held his ripped out chain-and-hook mechanism in his left hand, absently rolling the hook between his right hand’s fingers, turning to Megatron, who was glowering at him, and droned.

 

“Soundwave’s datacable program is inadequate for my creation’s frame and configuration. I recall our bonded never controlled more than four cables at once, so logically, requesting a fifth to be used brought up my creation into logical conflict, thus allowing me to leave relatively unscathed, without any of you needing to resort to force to stop him from trashing me.”

 

Megatron turned his glare to Soundwave, since giving his best scowl to Shockwave had no effect, and the tapedeck shrugged.

 

“Soundwave: only owns four cables. Never had to _program_ more than that.”

 

Shockwave dipped his head in a nod, unceremoniously turning to face away from his bondmates, noticing by the corner of his visor his creation booting up, giant optic cycling open as the startup music of _Windows_ played from his speakers.

 

“Microtron. Rise up. As you can see, I am no fighter and you require true training, by trial and error, old-school, to master all your twelve datacables.”

 

He then extended a hand to his creation, who captured it eagerly in his claws, sauntering to his side while hugging it, guiding the hand towards both Megatron and Soundwave, literally _handing_ them the mechling.

 

“The best Gladiators of Kaon, our Lord Megatron and Soundwave, are certainly more adequate for your special training than me, and I ask that you remain with them for the while.”

 

Before both could protest and say “ _What!!_ ”, Shockwave shook his hand a few times until his creation detached from him, instantly placing himself quietly between Megatron and Soundwave, taking their hands in his claws.

 

“I am positive he will not bring trouble.”

 

And dipped his head in a nod at Microtron, who nodded eagerly, _beaming_ and promising obedience _._

 

Megatron faced down the bouncing kid, and Soundwave donned him a nearly horrified glower as Shockwave, tilting his head, unreadable, excused himself for the night and left, as the sliding doors whirred open in the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Doors whirring open in the room, Shockwave stepped in to find Ratchet resting his head over his right forearm, snoring in the desk.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I see you obeyed.”

 

Ratchet, jolting awake, startled, contemplated Shockwave staring him down in the room, and snorted.

 

“Where’s your _cute_ little clone?”

 

“My Lord will stay with my creation for the while.”

 

He extended the medic the detached chain and hook then, as Ratchet glanced between the protruding chestplate, only now paying enough attention at the half-bent rotor blades and the dark grey scratches in Shockwave’s frame, snorting.

 

“Confess, you let yourself get trashed on purpose, just to end up under my _servos._ ”

 

Shockwave _stared_ , for a full second, EM-field unreadable, hand still extended, and droned.

 

“Letting oneself be trashed without purpose is highly illogical.”

 

Ratchet, twitching his left optic, snatched the device in hands, grumbling his way through the repairs.

 

“I swear I’ll never understand decepticon _courtship._ ”

 

Shockwave, turning a very slow social gear in his processors, replied.

 

“Your perspective is skewed, Chief Medical Officer. This admittedly small and _permitted_ degree of damage in my frame came from Microtron’s datacables when I voluntarily became living target for his training.”

 

Ratchet blinked as Shockwave unclipped the four damaged rotor blades from his back, setting them aside.

 

“First you decide giving him your own processed fluids, then you let the _kid_ just come and _scrap_ you?”

 

“Logically.”

 

Ratchet then shook his head and took on one rotor blade and with the heat emitters in hands on, manually straightening it.

 

“What the frag did _carrier_ coding do to your sense of _logic_?”

 

Shockwave, failing to see the logic in _not_ giving in to his creation’s non-life-threatening demands and needs, turned on his back, allowing Ratchet to clip the first paddle in.

 

“My sense of logic remains intact, Chief Medical Officer.”

 

Physically focused in the warm hands as soon as they finished clicking the second repaired blade back, Shockwave rotated around his own axis and now faced the medic, looking up at him, as the red hands slide up and down the second rotor blade, straightening it between themselves.

 

“On leaving my creation with Soundwave to start learning to communicate via datacables, I calculated Soundwave’s _pride_ would result in my bondmate handing Microtron the _datacable_ _gladiator_ program.”

 

Raising an optic ridge, Ratchet stared at his master tilting his head to the right and lowering his left shoulder, rotor hub rotating in his back and showing one more slot to fit the next paddle, above the shoulder.

 

“Considering Soundwave only owns four appendages, it was mostly logical that the program would be insufficient for my creation’s twelve datacables, and that Microtron would probably wreak havoc on first using it.”

 

Stretching his right arm over Shockwave’s left shoulder, Ratchet clicked the second paddle as the heliformer rotated the hub again to bring up the third blade’s slot.

 

“On _my Lord_ seeing the _débâcle_ , I indeed counted on the very high probability he would act on his siring subroutines and call up his creations, including Microtron, to train.”

 

Resting both hands at the medic’s red hips, right and left, he stepped ahead once, as the medic then clicked the third, repaired paddle back.

 

“Once summoned to partake on the training, I offered myself to be Microtron’s living target, guaranteeing he would remain relatively undamaged, pointing up the need for him to be further trained by my bondmates, leaving him in their care.”

 

Cockpit glass resting against the medic’s windshield now, Shockwave rotated the last slot up, wordlessly requesting it to be filled.

 

“As such, I am now unencumbered from my _carrier_ duties and I can comfortably proceed with your slave synch.”

 

Ratchet then caught the fourth, nearly undamaged rotor blade, straightened it quickly back into shape and clicked it in, a flush of heat coming from the pair of black hands currently touching his hipsides, and scoffed.

 

“You fiend, creepy amoral glitch. I can’t believe you planned this all along, involving your own creation in the process!”

 

Shockwave did a full rotation in the hub, ignoring ratchet's reprehension.

 

“I have not planned the circumstances, but I indeed considered the most probable outcome. As usual, I am correct. Now, Chief Medical Officer. Open your medical port.”

 

As Ratchet scowled, the scientist stepped back and tapped on the medic’s lateral hipside twice, waiting, nodding satisfied at the prompt obedience, taking his right hand off the red hips and unsubspacing his cortical psychic patch.

 

Standing up, in the middle of the room, unresisting, Ratchet had been invaded by the purple medical cable, his vision tunnelling for a second, his own HUD filling with the twin screen from Shockwave's own systems.

 

“Observe these currently green bars in your HUD. They represent your degree of need for a proper slave synch. Notice they are as vital to your function as your fuel levels or defragging and should not be overlooked.”

 

Ratchet, squinting, tried to find the rest of the deception in said progress bars, for he truly didn’t feel much different from before, as Shockwave, ignoring his conflict, droned further.

 

“Now, since you did such good work on my arm and even proceeded with my minor repairs, spoke patiently with my creation earlier and dutifully watched the conversion of my future Lab, as _reward_ I will automatically reset your bars to zero today, no other strings attached, via _cortical psych patch_ , and as long as you remain so, I will never make you grovel and beg for the daily synch.”

 

Ratchet blinked, still not feeling any different, as Shockwave finished resetting the bars, keeping his purple cable connected.

 

“Trust me when I say you will not want to have to beg: I am quite immune to mendicancy of any kind. Now, be a nice slave and get into my berth.”

 

* * *

 

 

At his Lord’s berth, Soundwave _glowered_ at the ceiling.

 

“Everything: _just perfect_.”

 

And folded arms over his glass chestplate, all cassetticons in slots, one single slim dark grey datacable coiled and hugging him around his waist.

 

Megatron sighed, pinching his nosebridge with his free hand as another datacable held his other arm, with a near punishing grip. Soundwave kept complaining.

 

“Soundwave: severely displeased by _intruder._ ”

 

We now see Microtron, deep in recharge, slotted between Soundwave and Megatron, camera-optic turned off, foetal position, back turned to the gunformer, front to Soundwave.

 

“Soundwave.” Megatron, summoning all the patience he didn’t have, tapped once Microtron's cable, coiled around his own left wrist. “Your CNA litters his frame, so don’t play the _jealous_ game. He even reminds me of you in a time you used to keep your cables more at hand.”

 

Soundwave tilted his head, releasing one of his own cables to briefly touch Megatron's face.

 

“Reminiscence: otherwise welcome, however moment inappropriate. Full of cassettes in slots; extra newspark around. Enjoyment: _Impossibl_ _e._ ”

 

Megatron shook his head and smirked, as the mechling slouched himself further into Soundwave's arm.

 

“See, Soundwave. He even likes you. What can you possibly have against it?”


	20. Sleeping with the enemy

“I have everything against it!”

 

Ratchet refused moving, as Shockwave stared at him, mute for three seconds.

 

“I have just complimented you on being a good slave, and I strongly advise against refusing to obey my direct order.”

 

Shockwave then _tugged_ on the _cortical psychic path_ to remind him of obeying, as Ratchet growled, back resting against the side of the berth.

 

“Is it really necessary?”

 

Pushing Ratchet lightly and making him _sit_ then lay on his back on the memory mesh, Shockwave crawled over him, unashamedly straddling his white thighs, black hands running slowly up, heat emitters turned _on_ and ghosting over his red interface panels, finally gripping back into the red abdominal plates.

 

“My interest is this impending event is  _scientific_ in nature.”

 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge, squinting as in a single move the heliformer moved up, slotting his wide aft comfortably over the medic’s interface panels and grinding, as Ratchet held his in-venting, finally managing to hoarse through the next phrase.

 

“Doesn’t look much _scientific_ from my perspective, _master._ ”

 

Shockwave tilted his head left, amazingly unaffected, right hand trailing up and reaching Ratchet's neck, lifting his chin up and contemplating the visible fuel lines going into his head, fingertips grazing them down back into his chestplates and the painted decepticon symbol, tracing the single glyph of the _Science_ caste over it, as his black fingers were followed by a set of _hungry_ blue optics.

 

“Your perspective is once more skewed, Chief Medical Officer, but I shall enlighten you. I have need of _scientific medical data_ you have deep inside your core, and I shall _access_ it, either you want it or not.”

 

At that Ratchet snorted, contemplating Shockwave’s straddling position and fighting the urge to just clasp his red hands over the plentiful aft.

 

“Insidious glitch, can’t you just hack in and take whatever you want?”

 

Shockwave, not caring about being accused of a fact, droned a not-reply and deliberately placed the medic’s hands on his own aft.

 

“I am taking what _I_ want.”

 

Ratchet snorted, hands burning as they touched the white plating, recalling how his _master_ lead his bondmates along, manipulating them into taking his creation away, _savouring_ the mental convolutions Shockwave went through just to get him in his berth.

 

“Now. I am currently connected to your medical port. Complete the loop into mine and connect me with your medical cable. I am ready.”

 

Despite the fact the decepticon scientist apparently wanted nothing but an _extended_ medical connection, Ratchet, hands still holding Shockwave’s hips, finally _shook_ his head in a negative, as his master stared, unaffected.

 

“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Our firewalls and anti-viruses are up to date. Our ports and medical cables, fully compatible. Our systems, _medically_ clean. I fail to see the logic in your denial.”

 

Ratchet shot daggers from his optics at his _master_ : he would rather not be in this particular position right now, or better, would rather be, but not in this particular circumstance. As if reading his thoughts, Shockwave droned further.

 

“I know you understand why I have firewalled your mind. As mechs of Science and equals in Caste, it would not do to have Soundwave probing on you, not when we are meant to exchange data through our connections. My bondmate is not a scientist, and albeit intelligent enough, Soundwave would not comprehend, and would certainly _misinterpret_ the event.”

 

“I can’t blame Soundwave, even _I_ am misinterpreting the event!”

 

Shockwave then unceremoniously opened his left hand in a clawing motion, transforming all his fingertips into bladed cybertronium microsurgical scalpels, warming them up and digging his fingers like hot knives in butter into the medic’s lateral right hip and forcibly reaching Ratchet’s medical cable, pulling it out through the debris with a punishing grip, as the autobot medic suppressed a scream.

 

“Chief Medical Officer: you do not comprehend the position you are in. I can still make this connection objectively unpleasant.”

 

At that, the decepticon quickly connected the energon-dripping medical cable into his own port, completing the loop, visor dimming involuntarily as his download begun.

 

“You should be grateful, however, that I have respect towards your usefulness, and decided that your collaboration would be more thorough with _positive stimulus_.”

 

Shockwave then turned _on_ his anaesthetising heatwave emitters, loosening his own hand plating and carefully, slowly reached back the damaged right hip-plates, nullifying the pain he himself caused, spreading the numbness wide, as he rolled his hips over the medic’s, slowly.

 

“Oh, Primus.” whispered the medic, sensory net ablaze with heat and the sudden lack of pain.

 

“ _Primus_ is hardly the correct designation.” he monotoned, increasing the heat.

 

Ratchet, blue optics dilated to a slight rim, shell relaxing against his will, finally let his firewalls go, systems being systematically invaded by Shockwave’s relentless hacking.

 

“I can be very indulgent, Chief Medical Officer, and you currently do deserve it.”

 

Flat on his back on the berth, the very welcome weight of the heliformer grinding over his array and enticing his _interface_ cable to attempt to pressurise, _medically_ locked inside slot and behind his plating, Ratchet was currently unable to leave position or do anything about it, optics off, wholly numbed, shell-shocked and almost drugged in delight.

 

“Lay back and enjoy it.”

 

Staring down, merciless in his logic, Shockwave impassively uncoiled his chain-and-hook, looped it around Ratchet’s neck and pulled the unresisting medic up, battlemask to face, in his sitting position, nuzzling against the crook of his neck, dimming down then finally turning his visor off.

 

* * *

 

 

Off to the Science Lab, pledging with Wheeljack and Perceptor for help in the medbay, First Aid was on his knees.

 

“Please?”

 

Wheeljack, hand in chin, stared, _very_ thoughtful.

 

“Anything?”

 

First Aid shuddered.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Shuddering, at the brink of a thundering, _data_ overload, Ratchet was suddenly disconnected from the data and electrical _loop_ he had been locked into with Shockwave.

 

Still nearly floating, as if in out of body experience, not exactly crashing, he detachedly onlined his optics back and observed a completely unfazed Shockwave leaving his previously straddling position and walking calmly to the door, opening it to find and take a certain mechling in arms, getting enveloped by four dark grey datacables at the same time in a tight hug.

 

“Microtron, what is the matter? Why are you not with _our Lord_?”

 

The small mech grumbled something about having a nightmare and being hungry, tightening further his cables around his carrier’s midsection. Shockwave nodded, quickly cradling the mechling and putting him right besides Ratchet at the main berth and connecting the _cortical psychic patch_ , in seconds providing his creation with instant sleep.

 

Once the grey mech had finally released his cables from _carrier_ , embracing his own midsection and limbs instead, visibly relaxing, the heliformer disconnected from the newspark, then in a single brutish motion shoved the still _numbed_ medic at the extra berth, placing one idle hand over Ratchet's chestplate.

 

“Where did we stop, Chief Medical Officer?”

 

Not awaiting any answer, Shockwave unceremoniously connected the purple medical cable on the medic, and Ratchet's own cable on his own very purplish medical port, looping the circuit back.

 

“Yes. I remember now.”

 

He force-crashed Ratchet's HUD, bringing the autobot immediately to darkness and silence.

 

* * *

 

  
Darkness. Silence.

 

Blissful silence.

 

Soundwave couldn't believe his _luck_ when Microtron had awoken screeching that a sparkeater was out to get him, spreading his dozen datacables both at him and Megatron.

 

After carefully extracting themselves off the nightmarish Medusa, he convinced Megatron the newspark shouldn't recharge away from his carrier yet, standing up, delivering him besides Shockwave's room, and sauntering away from there even before the drowsy _kid_ opened the door.

 

Kicking his cassettes out, including a very well recharged buzzing little bee, he ordered them to remain in his own room, taking care of their younger sister until Soundwave's return, and finally, finally, invaded Megatron's room back, locking the door on his back, and before his liege could protest, literally _jumped_ him, standing optic to visor, holding him hostage by two datacables to his waist as he straddled his hip-plates.

 

“Microtron: delivered to carrier. Cassettes: recharged and released. Soundwave: very _empty_.”

 

Megatron smirked, holding his face, bringing his battlemask close to his own face, at kissing distance.

 

“Is that so? And how could I help your _emptiness_ , Soundwave?”

 

“Soundwave: wouldn't mind getting _full.”_

 

* * *

 

 

 _F_ _ull_ of all kinds of medically relevant data from Ratchet that he managed to download during the medic's data overload, Shockwave reviewed his _stolen_ databanks.

 

Obviously he would need much more info still, but so far, very good stuff indeed. He could really work with some of what he copied. There were even loose details on the medical info concerning a certain Matrix-bearer Prime called Optimus, former Orion Pax, details that might prove useful into Shockwave's future Decepticon Spark Creating Project – or so – he didn't yet have a name for it, but it would be a monumental project, revolutionary, to allow for the fast production of warriors independently of any of Primus’ will.

 

Having by now welded and fixed Ratchet’s right hip-plates, absently caressing the top of Microtron's camera head, like a villain would to a cherished white cat, dutifully laid besides his creation, Shockwave was now partially enveloped by two grey datacables, his own purple medical cable connected to his newspark's correspondent port, making sure he would get enough rest.

 

The kid certainly would need further subroutines and variables installed, before complete recharge independence would take place.

 

Turning his head to the extra berth, he observed unconcerned the medic groaning, holding his own head and checking on his hip-plates to find them already patched with greyish-white foil.

 

“Frag it. I've been hit by a truck. And I have the white paint transfers in my hip-plates to prove.”

 

“I believe it had been a long time a _truck_ doesn't _hit_ you.” Shockwave absently nodded “It would be more correct to say it had been a _helicopter_ , Ratchet. I had analogous red paint transferral, already resolved. My private washracks are available for your mandatory ablution.”

 

Blinking, he turned to the decepticon currently embraced by dark grey cables on the other berth.

 

“How dare you remind me of my own memories of the Prime? When did your clone get in? Did he get to see _anything_??”

 

Shockwave, petting his creation, ignored the medic, who snapped.

 

“Frag you, Shockwave, he’s a newspark, you’re a monster for exposing him to this! I should be _mad_ that you even mentioned Optimus!” he spared a glance to the recharging newspark “Despite you being an awful parent, the only thing redeeming you so far is you indeed seem to take care of your creation.”

 

“Unmistakably. I am a _responsible_ mech.”

 

“You are a bastard, that's what you are.”

 

“A responsible bastard, then. My intent for _myself_ was exclusively scientific in nature and you know it. I have arrangements for the day. Wash.”

 

Shockwave nodded to himself, pointing to the washrack. Grumbling, Ratchet went.

 

“Once you are over, and Microtron had at least two more hours of recharge, we are heading to the Constructicon Bay. I require my Lab _ready_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Ready?”

 

First Aid nearly whimpered.

 

Of course he wasn't ready.

 

“Please, not this.”

 

“You said you’d be _good._ ” Wheeljack interjected.

 

“Are you sure there isn't another way?”

 

“Progress requires it! For Science!” Perceptor agreed.

 

“But... will I have to archive all those datapads???”

 

We see then First Aid staring dejected at a big pile of datapads at the Science Lab, littering the corners of the room up to the walls.

 

* * *

 

 

The last wall was set by the constructicons into the small portion of the medbay now turned into Shockwave's Laboratory.

 

Having just released Microtron from recharge, making sure to order him to remain at public areas where other mechs would often come by and he would never be lonely with anyone, for extra security while he went to work, Shockwave came inside his future Lab, followed by his personal _slave_ , hands clasped behind his back, shoulders high, feet slightly apart, paddles very slowly rotating counter-clockwise on his rotor, as he started marching in.

 

“Constructicons.” he walked past their 'head surgeon', nodding once. “Hook. You have produced an acceptable craft. The Decepticon Cause acknowledges your effort.”

 

Shockwave dismissed them then, as Hook left, groaning something about losing a quarter of the bay just because Megatron can't keep his _spike_ and spark out of certain voluptuous chestplates, as Ratchet stiffened minutely.

 

He could entirely understand the appeal.

 

Once finally alone, the decepticon scientist approached the medic, purple cable in hands.

 

“The work begins. Come here.”


	21. Black Friday

“Here, here, kitty!!”

 

“Now where the slag that cat went???”

 

Rumble and Frenzy searched the common floors of the undersea decepticon base, fruitlessly; Ravage was nowhere to be found, and they were dreading the moment Soundwave would search for them in their room, and they would not be there.

 

_Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Rumble speaking. Do you copy?_

_  
_ The avians pinged back, in negative. At that, one distant ping came positive.

 

 _Menace? Ratbat?_ _Do you know where Ravage is?_

 

Another ping, another positive. Rumble spoke into his comm link, asking for the coordinates.

 

* * *

 

 

“Coordinates. Now.”

 

Blades tapped into his military radio, waiting for his reply. Apparently there is a commotion southwards the planet, and the main crew of the autobots will not be able to arrive in time.

 

He groaned. Optimus Prime couldn't have chosen a worse moment to remove _his_ First Aid from their team. How were they supposed to form Defensor? How was he supposed to barge in and scrap decepticons if they didn't have a field medic with them anymore?

 

Who would personally tend to his many varied wounds??

 

Helicopter-moding and deciding he had to find a way to protest his lot in autobot faction life, Blades growled, his tow cable glimmering in the sunlight.

 

* * *

 

 

Sunlight shone through Ravage's optics as he contemplated the Chaos.

 

Apparently Chaos happened due to some sort of Black Friday Event and the humans had gone insane, littering the streets and stores with their presence, carrying truckloads of boxes around, screaming at themselves, tearing limb and eye apart, all because the prices were too damn good!

 

Ratbat, perched atop his head, chirped; Menace, flying in eights around him, buzzed. Ravage internally rejoiced.

 

Despite the specific orders for them to not leave the area in their room, Ravage wasn't stupid and knew as any good decepticon how to exploit a loophole.

 

Or better, a hole.

 

Afterall, technically, if Scavenger came in through a hole, waved them hello, and left, they never left the room, if the hole was located _within_ the room, right?

 

Ravage, as the oldest cassette, had the _moral_ obligation of watching over Soundwave's youngest creation. He was carrier's and sire's _favourite_ , for a reason!

 

Getting a ping from Rumble, the mechanic bee informed them of the incoming arrival of the twins. Ravage settled on his back paws, waiting, and pondering on their younger sibling.

 

She wasn't discreet enough for infiltration, the buzzing disrupting stealth. She wasn't bright nor smart, or strong, or even weaponised. She had one ability though.

 

Vibrating her insectoid wings, she generated a high-frequency inaudible sound that seemed to be disrupting the humans, making them even more agitated and prone to further chaos.

 

Considering the already installed Chaos of the Black Friday, this was bound to become _interesting_.

 

He could hardly wait for the other cassettes.

 

* * *

 

 

Two cassettes ran over Microtron, who happened to be innocently sitting by himself on the corridor, making sure to remain in a common area where lots of mecha usually passed by, a datapad in hands, reading: in automatic self-defence, he grappled the twins with two of his datacables, bringing both to the level of his single red optic.

 

“Yo big bozo! Let us go!”

 

“Sounders will be so mad!”

 

Microtron blinked, lowering them to the ground, kneeling to meet their faces.

 

“You broke my datapad.” he shook the pad before their optics “Sire gave it to me. It contained the copy of his early _poetry._ ”

 

Microtron somehow pouted without a mouth. Rumble and Frenzy nearly choked. Megatron used to write poetry???

 

 _More than meets the eye_ indeed.

 

Microtron shook his camera-head, releasing them from his cables though.

 

“I guess I'll have to ask Sire for a new one. Maybe Soundwave can upload the poetry back.”

 

At the mention of Soundwave, knowing they were in trouble, Rumble and Frenzy shared a glance, first gulping, then finally snickering.

 

“Hey, kid, we’re gonna shopping. Wanna come along???”

 

* * *

 

 

Ratchet came along his senses, slowly; he had received a myriad of blueprints for a device, that according to description, will...

 

“No.”

 

“Is there a problem, Chief Medical Officer?”

 

Blinking, Ratchet observed the delicate pieces spread on the slab, as Shockwave welded together what suspiciously looked like an octagonal spark chamber with easily accessible locks.

 

“You are _insane_!”

 

Shockwave tilted his head right.

 

“I am _logical_.”

 

Ratchet twitched an optic.

 

“I have to get out of here. The way you knock me into unconsciousness with this fragging _cable_ of yours, when I next wake up I'll be strapped to a berth with this... spark condenser attached and you'll be getting me sparked… for Science!”

 

Shockwave stared, apparently pensive for a full minute.

 

“Spark Condenser. Good name.” he nodded to himself “Your offer to strap yourself on the berth is tempting.”

 

Ratchet widened his optics.

 

“But illogical. I had already considered strapping _myself_ to the berth, however Lord Megatron _convinced_ me not to.”

 

Ratchet blinked. Why wasn't he surprised.

 

Shockwave then attached two pliable metal cylinders to the sides of the handmade spark chamber, with a click, handing him the partially mounted piece.

 

“Now. Be a good slave and take over construction.”

 

Ratchet snorted, folding arms and dutifully ignoring the half-mounted prototype in hands, as Shockwave _glared_.

 

“Why, _master_? Aren’t you the capable scientist who devised this _project_?”

 

Shockwave, tilting his head right, EM-field flat, staring at the medic’s red hands for three full seconds, finally captured Ratchet’s left hand in his own, turning the red hand’s palm up and deposing the device in it.

 

“I am always _fascinated_ to see a capable pair of hands working, and yours are _very_ capable indeed.”

 

And closed the medic’s fingers over the half-mounted device, dipped his head in a nod and placed himself adjacent to the slab, hands clasped behind his back, expectant, as Ratchet groaned, adjusting the stool and finally sitting.

 

* * *

 

Sitting on his office, Optimus shoves his face in hands as soon as he notices Blades on the comm.

 

_Why do helicopters haunt me? Why?_

 

“Optimus speaking.”

 

“ _We have a situation.”_

 

“What happened?”

 

“ _Sir, the humans are restless and crowding.”_

 

“What's the news? It's Black Friday.”

 

Blades _snickered_ on his comm.

 

“ _I know, sir, but apparently the decepticons went shopping as well.”_

 

“What???”

 

Optimus' comm feed shows a mob screeching out of a chain department store, followed by no one less than...

 

“ _Soundwave's cassettes and an unknown decepticon are terrorising the humans. It's a pity we are out of action, you see, we might have been gestalting into Defensor, but someone decided our medic should be out of our team, so, we are with our hands tied.”_

 

Optimus growled. He really hated helicopters, especially those who decide their group should go on strike.

 

The video feed shifts to the humans: one of them comes to a halt, turns to camera, and screams in absolute fear that _M_ _icrosoft allied with the decepticons!_ as Microtron, LED screen chestplate cracked and blurred, comes close, blinking his single optic/camera, speaking.

 

“ _Microsoft?_ _I hate Windows!_ _I want to shift to Apple!_ _My Ipad was a complete_ _ **steal**_ _!”_

 

He raised the Ipad Air II to the camera with a tentacled datacable in Optimus' screen.

 

Optimus blinked. Who the slag was this decepticon? Why was it attempting to sell Apple to the Autobots? Wasn't Microsoft the Evil one?

 

Why was it small?

 

“Identify, decepticon.”

 

Microtron turned to the camera again, clicking his claws together.

 

“ _I don't know you. Who are you?”_

 

“I asked first. Where are your manners?” Greatly mature, Prime.

 

“ _Oh. I'm sorry. Hello.”_ he waved a shy hello with a spare datacable _“I'm Microtron. And you?”_

 

Optimus shifted on his seat. This decepticon looked so friendly!

 

“I am Optimus Prime, Autobot Leader.”

 

The giant red optic flickered once, cycling its objective open. Microtron turned left slightly, showing his branded decepticon insignia on the left side of his head, as he seemed to be paying attention to something else, then turned back straight to the screen.

 

“ _My siblings are calling. Must be going.”_ the datacable waved a goodbye.

 

“Wait!” _Siblings??_ Optimus extended a hand to the screen.

 

At that, Rumble screamed offscreen that _they gotta be going, Sounders will be mad!_ , and Microtron finally saluted and left, his CPU feet thumping on the ground, screaming that he was _going, bye!!!_ as the screen refocused on Blades, grinning evilly at his rebellious strike.

 

Optimus, on his side of the screen, a headache brewing, waved the smirking Blades out, then started _thinking_.

 

Mystery: the newspark's carrier. Who would be the newspark's carrier?

 

Hypothesis number _obvious_ : Soundwave. Last Decepticon Carrier-Host (Some mecha speculate he is in truth the last decepticon female, the status of carrier-host being a clever disguise), knowingly bonded to Megatron, very successful at getting sparked.

 

It explained the fact that the cassettes and Microtron considered themselves siblings.

 

It didn't explain though why the _fugly_ mechling was not a cassetticon. Soundwave is too much a control freak to let any of his offspring be housed in an independent shell.

 

As such, no, it can't be Soundwave's kid.

 

Yet, the new decepticon is clearly sibling to the cassettes. As everybody knows who sired the cassettes, we must conclude then the newspark is Megatron's kid.

 

_With whom, then??_

 

A sinking feeling reached Optimus. Megatron got _himself_ sparked by Soundwave?

 

Optimus snorted. Primus wouldn't be so cruel as to let Megatron get sparked.

 

Would he?

 

He fleeted a glance at the Book of Primus, fidgeting for a while, then shook his head.

 

He still had other probabilities to think over before _that_ one.

 

Let's for now not consider _rape._ Surprisingly there is no shortage of mechs that would have willingly jumped into Megatron's berth.

 

As a matter of fact, there seems to be more people wanting Megatron than himself, Optimus pondered.

 

Not that Optimus actually wanted Megatron's _fanbase_ over him anyway.

 

Back to the mechling: this _Microtron_ certainly isn't getting any beauty prizes with his single giant red optic. And how does he fuel anyway?

 

Hmmm. Single giant optic and no mouthplates.

 

A scary resemblance to good old _Shockwave_ , Megatron’s second bonded.

 

Everybody _knew_ Shockwave would be _very_ _willing._

 

And _proud._

 

There was a series of problems with that though.

 

As Elita-1 assured him many times from the autobot's energon raids, _Shockwave was left behind on Cybertron, on guard duty, significantly understaffed, being his unemotional, one-dimensional self, disturbingly inapt shit shoot, as ever._

 

_Then how?_

 

Oh. Obviously. The same way Elita-1 travelled from Cybertron to here.

 

Megatron and Shockwave probably had been meeting via spacebridge during energon cube deliveries, fragged and sparkmerged and _Cybertron's Guardian Dog_ got sparked with this uncomely little newspark!!!

 

(Megatron's bad tastes in mates are _not_ under discussion now.)

 

(Much less the fact Shockwave once had been a decent fellow, until he got Empurata-ed and decided based on cold hard logic the Deceptions were more to his tastes, abandoning _him_!)

 

Optimus quickly shooed away the last thought. Bad Optimus. That Shockwave you sat on a bench for days with, and had as a purely _platonic_ friend for, was long ago dead and _gone_.

 

The only thing not _adding_ to the Math was the very known fact that Shockwave was considered _sterile._

 

_Then how come did he even get sparked?_

 

Pinching his nosebridge, Optimus offlined his optics.

 

If weren’t so sure Megatron was pranking him with a visual copy of the Matrix (that as far as he knew very well could be his disappeared paperweight – he refused to believe anyone would ever truly _clone_ the Matrix), he might even believe that somehow Megatron ordered the Matrix to provide him an offspring.

 

Shooing the bad thoughts away, Optimus shook his head: Shockwave is _brilliant_ , and it was painfully obvious that the decepticon _scientist_ found a logical, scientific way, not related to the Matrix, that never left his chestplates, at all, to fix his age-old problem of infertility, and then, only then, made sure to _merge_ with Megatron and...

 

Optimus shuddered, uselessly trying _not_ to imagine Megatron and Shockwave _togethe_ _r._

 

The _things_ about Decepticon High Command he never wanted to think about.

 

He sighed: at least it wasn't _Starscream._

 

* * *

 

Starscream observed very amused the swarm of cassettes littering the corridors, hissing and chattering and chirping and buzzing, failing miserably to pretend they never left their quarters that early morning.

 

He had already searched for the tapedeck on the bridge today, failing to locate him, which could only mean, coupled with Megatron's absence, and Soundwave's open promise of a new lab to Shockwave, that the previous night had been _busy_ for them and that a certain _scientist_ and his slave were certainly working within the newly finished lab.

 

“Hey! You, there!”

 

He would not give Shockwave's newspark any notion that he had any kind of special privilege for being Megatron's offspring: Primus knew Shockwave himself would make sure the kid _knew._

 

The one opticed kid, walking slowly with a strangely small datapad in hands stopped.

 

“It's Microtron.” and tilted his head.

 

“Whatever.” he waved a dismissive hand “What is _that?_ ”

 

“My new Ipad.” he turned his giant red camera away, holding the datapad close to his screen-chest “I need Sire's Lord Megatron's poetry copied back. If I ask nice Soundwave might copy it for me here. I was reading when the cassettes broke my other datapad. So I got my Apple during Black Friday.”

 

Starscream stalled minutely. Ipad? Megatron? _Poetry_? Soundwave? Black apples in a Friday?

 

The things about Decepticon High Command he never _wanted_ to know about.

 

He smirked. He couldn't directly get further revenge (the catfight with Shockwave didn't count!) on the mechling for his datacable-burned wing ( _it_ _hurt, fraggit!)_ , but certainly Starscream had no qualms against causing petty havoc into Megatron's _intimate_ life.

 

“You wanna know something? Why don't we go find your daddy? I bet he’s missing you.”

 

Microtron subspaced the datapad then, _beaming_ , uncoiling a datacable and holding into Starscream's hand, looking up at the seeker. Sighing loudly, down the corridor of the ship, Starscream steered the newspark, nearly bouncing with unspent energy.

 

* * *

 

Nearly bouncing with unspent energy, the fully charged outer _spark chamber_ Ratchet built to Shockwave's specifications thrummed into life, connected directly to the new Lab's computers.

 

“Excellent. The readings prove that both ends of the electrifying cables can transmit adequate charge to the condensing chamber, currently capable of housing and fully keeping a spark energised, as calculated.”

 

Shockwave nodded, taking notes into his personal datapad, hardlined directly into his own systems, linked to the computer by his purple cable. Ratchet, blueprints ingrained in memory, knew very well where the whole thing was leading.

 

“Briefly we shall be testing with live, non-bonded subjects, to produce a newspark not attached to any of the sparks. If feasible, then the next step shall be to keep the chamber charged, continuously sustaining the growth and development of said newspark. Finally, the most complicated step will be on how to make sure a protoform can be attached to the process.”

 

“Shouldn't the best step be, _Mr. Logic_ , to make sure protoforms can be produced first, so that any potential newspark produced during the test sustains chance of survival?”

 

“Random newsparks generated during test phase by unrelated unbonded subjects aren't worth keeping.”

 

“Oh, yes, I forget, your own cute newspark was certainly _not_ randomly generated and certainly had not been worth _keeping_.”

 

Going still, Shockwave became suddenly _very_ aware on an intellectual level of how many million years and trials it took for him to get sparked – an _event_ that only happened because of the parasitical Matrix.

 

“You forget your _place_ , Chief Medical Officer.”

 

Ratchet snarled, truly annoyed by the unethical means by which the project – in itself an intelligent and interesting idea – was being conducted. He recognised parts of his own medical knowledge and files snatched from his own memories, now ingrained in the project, and he hated he had been an unwilling part of it, and he had to protest.

 

“Hopefully not the same _place_ the test-subject sparks will go to, _master._ ”

 

Shockwave slowly turned to glare, silently, at Ratchet: if the medic wasn't sure his _master_ was a sparkless emotionless bastard, he would almost believe that he had a rouse out of him.

 

“Very well, Chief Medical Officer. At your _behest_ , I _concur_ to shift the order of the tests.”

 

Shockwave _ripped_ his purple cable off the computer, stepping right beside him, looking him square in the optics, being both almost the same height, battlemask to face.

 

“ _Indulge_ yourself.”

 

At that, he nearly stomped out of the lab, leaving Ratchet alone.

 

The medic, not expecting any change of spark much less a half-emotional reaction, blinked, stupefied, watching his _master_ leave the door, reaching the corridor.

 

* * *

 

 

The corridor suddenly got _very_ cold by many degrees, the instant Starscream stopped, facing a very silent, very _resolute_ Shockwave stomping towards him, rotor spinning on his back.

 

“Starscream.” he stopped, at attention, hands behind his back, apparently cold and uncaring, rotor coming to a halt.

 

“Shockwave.” he looked between himself and Microtron, feeling with dread the _tightly contained_ _EM-field_ not-radiating from his fellow commander and hearing the forcibly stalled rotors.

 

“Is there a matter you wish to discuss, _Starscream_?”

 

For Shockwave of all mechs to be anything less than cold and unemotional, there must be some serious s _hit_ happening and Starscream wanted to be no part of it.

 

As such, Starscream rolled for three full seconds the situation in his processor, finally snatching the datacable from his hand, taking one of Shockwave's own servos out of his own back, and unceremoniously placing the kid's cable there.

 

“Your newspark got Soundwave's Ipad a black apple for Megatron's Poetry Friday.”

 

And bolted away.

 

Unblinking, Shockwave stared down at Microtron's cable currently coiling around his fingers, his rotors slowly silencing themselves. The kid showed him the actually white Ipad Air II, red optic gleaming.

 

* * *

 

 

Red optics gleaming in the dark, Megatron onlined, completely restored.

 

Forget defeating Optimus Prime. Currently, happiness was an afterglowing Soundwave void of cassettes.

 

He turned to contemplate his first sparkmate. What a perfect day. Nothing could ruin it.

 

Nothing.

 

“I _require_ your attention, my Lord _._ ”

 

Megatron facepalmed: Shockwave could.

 

When did _Shockwave_ get in the room??? Why didn't he hear anything?

 

“Report then, Shockwave.” he sighed, resigned.

 

The scientist then bowed, extending his hand to Microtron, who gave him the Ipad.

 

“Starscream informed me about my Lord making Friday sessions of Black Poetry in exchange of apples with Soundwave, using this tiny Ipad. I fail to see the logic behind these actions, my Lord.”

 

Megatron turned to stare at the supposed Ipad, whatever it was, snatched it out of Shockwave's fingers, and contemplated its stupidly small size, rolling a couple of gears in his own processor.

 

“Microtron. This isn’t the datapad I gave you.”

 

The newspark nodded, explaining _how_ the datapad had been damaged, and _how_ he got a substitute. Megatron actually scratched his chin, finally calling.

 

“Soundwave.”

 

“Soundwave: just five minutes more.”

 

He turned on his side and returned to recharge. Shockwave tilted his head, bringing Microtron close to himself.

 

Megatron, being his manipulative mean self, rolled his optics, this time coming very close to Soundwave's audials and whispering full of sarcasm.

 

“Soundwave. Wouldn't you like to know what I just found out: the cassettes have left the room and wreaked havoc, against your orders.”

 

Soundwave's visor suddenly _beamed_ in the dark.

 

* * *

 

 

In the dark, First Aid hugged his knees.

 

He was tired.

 

He had just managed to archive all the datapads.

 

Ask him if he got his promised aid!!!

 

Nope. He got _more work_.

 

As it happens, while he did his ungainly mission, Wheeljack and Perceptor had free time in hands, and the engineer decided to request his fellow scientist’s help to test his _plot device unit_ _II_.

 

For Science.

 

Now poor First Aid had two stasis-locked fully dismembered autobots piling the medbay, depicting various kinds and degrees of damage.

 

On top of these emergencies, he also had the basic medical appointments to take care of.

 

Even though Hoist was supposed to take on the most basic maintenance, no one liked to schedule these things through the common Autobot Health System, and thus since forever, even before the Golden Age, they instead preferred to fake 'emergencies' to get quicker aid in the surgical medbay.

 

That explained why there were lines of autobots waiting to be seen on semi-emergency procedures like malfunctioning lights, ruined cogs, burned fuses, replacement of overused port callipers, paint scratches, interface-related viruses, not to mention those mechs outright lying about being ill to get medical work leave.

 

And still no medical assistants.

 

He was tired of non-medics telling him how to administrate a medbay!

 

First Aid was positive that if the Protectobots had the whole bay, like the Constructicons did, things would be done better and faster.

 

No matter they didn't have experience building anything. They were officially on strike anyway, they would have enough time to learn. They could really have their strike together!

 

At least he would get company. He missed his gestalt.

 

He missed Blades.

 

Patting himself on his gears for comfort, he finally wiped the pooled drying coolant from his visor, standing up, straightening his back.

 

He knew what he _had_ to do.

 

He was a mech on a _mission_.


	22. Mission: Impossible

“Soundwave: on a mission. Cassettes know what they _did._ ”

 

The cassettes cowered on a corner: they expected to be caught, but not so soon, and now they had a very pissed off Soundwave on their feet.

 

“But Sounders, we broke the pad, we had to compensate the kid!”

 

“Shockers' boy wanna be a writer or something, just like _dad_ , and we only wanted to help!”

 

Soundwave, knowing very well how his own creations liked to _help_ , _glowered_ at Rumble, who flinched; Ravage, assessing the situation, positioned himself at petting distance, faking a purr, as the two avians perched atop the desk, tilting their heads and the mechanic bee vibrated her wings in a subsonic rhythm.

 

As Ravage rubbed his face into Soundwave's leg, the tapedeck's bubbling anger slowly diminished, and his hand shifted lightly to the feline's head.

 

The twins shut up at the sight, gaping; usually by this point their carrier would either hand them bothersome tasks, or pocket them in his chestplates for punishment. Instead, there he was, sedately petting Ravage, who would never admit this wasn't _his_ brilliant and elaborate strategy to distract their beloved creator in first place.

 

Visor going offline, finally Soundwave rested against the wall on their collective berth, Ravage jumping to his lap, his avians on his shoulders, Ratbat hanging from his battlemask and Menace atop his head, still vibrating her hypnotic rhythm, and the twins one by each side, cassettes and carrier shifting slowly into recharge at a lovely huddling pile.

 

* * *

 

 

Ratchet took from the huddled pile a couple of metallic sheets, smelting them into the miniature plant he was making.

 

This compact plant was meant to cold-forge a viable startup protoform so that a basic cybertronian shell may be infused with it, and an alt-mode subsequently scanned.

 

He wouldn't deny that Shockwave's blueprints weren't sound, and most probable to work than not.

 

The scientist was indeed brilliant, which only angered Ratchet even more. Maybe his _experiment_ wouldn't even have wasted that many newsparks.

 

Ratchet however _had_ to make sure not a single one would eventually offline, undeservedly, at least.

 

It was a matter of honour.

 

He might have finally found a subject with which he seemed to have some kind of leverage against his _master_. It was maybe the first time that _logic_ or _rank_ wasn’t enough to make _Herr Shockwave_ win an argument.

 

He smiled, recalling the cyclopic _kid_ waving a hello with a tentacled datacable, a tilt in his huge camera head and a gleam in his optic.

 

Interesting how one's priorities shift when they become _attached_.

 

* * *

 

 

Attached to Shockwave's hip, Microtron followed him across the undersea base, tiny Apple Ipad in a hand, Megatron's early poetry uploaded back, practically sauntering as he walked, silent as ever.

 

“Microtron. Walk straight. Be mindful of your _status_.”

 

The kid stopped prancing, walking right besides Shockwave, trying and failing to mimicry his heavy steps and his rigid stance.

 

“Status?”

 

“You are our Lord's creation. It is only logical you need to reflect his greatness.” he stated, matter-of-factly. “Remember: he is the Decepticon Leader.”

 

Microtron rolled a couple of gears in his mind, nodding to himself.

 

Leader.

 

“Oh. I met the Autobot Leader!”

 

Shockwave practically screeched on the brakes he didn’t have, nearly tripping on himself, vocoder monotoning evenly.

 

“Elaborate.”

 

Microtron then led a clawed fingertip to the side at the base of his neck besides his camera head, tapping once his never used fuel intake.

 

“There was this camera with a human on the street. This mech, Optic Pride, asked me who I was.”

 

“And you plain told him.”

 

“He asked first, and I'm a well-mannered mech.” Microtron nodded, visibly beaming. Shockwave stared very mute, restarting to walk, the mechling following suite.

 

At the back of his processor, Shockwave pondered on the latest news.

 

He knew from personal experience that the Prime wasn't stupid and would probably by now have concluded from where the new decepticon came.

 

He had hoped to keep his newspark hidden from the autobot sight at least until he had matured a few centuries and had stopped being so innocent and gullible.

 

Now he had a situation in hands. His creation not only would have to watch his back for decepticons, but also against the autobots.

 

Even though Lord Megatron was Leader, and Shockwave was his second bonded, being fourth in Command and owner of considerable range of action and authority, in the event things ever went _wrong_ , the decepticon scientist wanted to make sure his creation would be a _useful_ and indispensable mech, regardless of faction or leadership, by carving him a unique _niche_.

 

Nodding to himself, Shockwave found out the solution, taking a turn and entering the Constructicon Bay, instead of his new lab.

 

“Come with me, my creation.”

 

He knew where to gather resources. He just had to ask _nice._

 

* * *

 

 

“What, are you going to just _ask nice_?”

 

Nautica nodded. That _Shockwave_ fellow couldn’t be that bad. Apparently since the decepticons left Cybertron he was no longer capable of slaughtering and kill a single autobot, being utterly unable to shoot anyone away much less prevent any single energon cube of being _borrowed_.

 

“Follow my trail of thought: no one could be that inept: Shockwave has to be doing all this on purpose. What if he has seized the fact the decepticons left, to in truth be on the autobot side, making a show of pretending to defend the energon but truly allowing for Megatron’s energon to be transferred to the rebels and ultimately end the War for Cybertron?”

 

Firestar stalled.

 

“But everyone knows he’s Megatron’s _mate_.”

 

Nautica shrugged.

 

“It can’t hurt to ask.”

 

They contemplated Shockwave’s Tower from the distance, having previously left Reflector’s Art Shop with all the details for their Sparkbonding Ceremony arranged, the compound going for Knock-Out’s Mod Shop as they came after the old cyclops.

 

There would be a Reception in the hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon, the buffing and modding provided by Knock-Out, _Roddy the Hot_ acting as his special guest and Reflector, multitasking, responsible for filming, photographing, music and show management.

 

All they needed now was someone to provide the energon goodies, and who better than our _good, old, generous, Mighty Shockwave_?

 

* * *

 

 

“Mighty Shockwave.” the Drone First spoke, his screen face flickering in tandem with the artificial voice “You have visitors.”

 

Shockwave, the sparkless drone, almost sputtered energon through his neck intake at the affirmation. How??? He was the Mighty Shockwave! Shockwave’s own drone, who locked all access to the Decepticon Space Bridge, only to make sure there would not be a single chance of Soundwave or Lord Megatron himself coming by to find out he was _not_ the real Shockwave.

 

As such, spacebridge locked out, who could there be at the door, trying to _visit_???

 

“Were the visitors sent by _Lord Megatron_?”

 

“I don’t think so, Mighty Shockwave. For a start, the spacebridge controls are in your hand, second, he doesn’t phone you since the day you hung up on his face.”

 

The cyclops _glowered_ at the drone, immediately requesting video feed, at which First’s screen face depicted the two _invaders._

 

“Feeemale autobots!!! Certainly after Megatron’s energy!”

 

“They don’t seem to have come to steal. When they come to take energon away, they prefer to use the back entrance you never order the drones to lock.”

 

Mighty Shockwave _shhhh’_ ed then.

 

“That back entrance is supposed to be a secret! How will the surveillance drones come in if they forget the access code?”

 

First nodded, then.

 

“What will you do to them, Mighty Shockwave?”

 

“Easy. We’ll pretend we aren’t home!”

 

Contemplating the purplish female autobot chiming the doorbell again, the sparkless cyclops puffed his chestplates up, proud. After a full minute waiting, he sagged, as the feeemales continued chiming the doorbell.

 

“Aw, shit. Looks like they aren’t going away. The glitches!”

 

“If you want I can send the drone army, Mighty Shockwave.”

 

 _Mighty_ _Shockwave_ shook his head, straightening himself.

 

“I’ll deal with them personally. I can do it! I’m the Mighty Shockwave!”

 

The purple cyclops walked to the door then, protruding chestplates once more puffed up, right hand heading to the door lock, single optic gleefully _glowing_.

 

* * *

 

 

Single optic glowing in pure glee, Microtron stared up _intently_ at the very happy constructicon.

 

“Oh! I love newsparks! Your _kid_ is so _cute_!!”

 

Scavenger patted Microtron’s head as the _kid_ hungrily contemplated the _necklace_ made from Vortex’ wiring, and Shockwave resisted the logical decision of backhanding the constructicon for touching his creation.

 

Afterall, this was _Scavenger_ , surprisingly enough a mech the scientist could trust.

 

Believe it or not, despite cold and sparkless, Shockwave was a fair mech. Ages untold, back on Cybertron, many hundreds of years after the poor Scavenger was drafted into the decepticons then fitted with the ability to gestalt with his fellow constructicons, the scientist had needed a few special components, and it was Scavenger of all mechs who went through mines and subterranean passages to dig out each of the minerals he had needed to create his _cortical psychic patch._

 

Amazingly, this was the only constructicon he actually respected for his usefulness and promptness to work.

 

Not to mention Scavenger, memory wiped whenever needed, had no idea about the fact Shockwave felt indebted to him.

 

This is why the logical mech puts up with his foolishness.

 

Scavenger was lucky for being very much loved by his counterpart constructicons, no matter that they would never admit it. In truth, Scavenger would never have survived the decepticon army without his gestalt mates backing him.

 

In many ways Scavenger reminded him of Microtron.

 

Hence why he knew he could trust him with this.

 

“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. I have a task tailored specially for you.”

 

“Yes, Commander Shockwave, Sir!”

 

* * *

 

“Sir.”

 

Optimus looked up from his resting position at his faithful desk, to meet the stern faceplates of…

 

“Prowl. What do I owe your visit. Are you here to arrest me at last?”

 

At that Prowl stood silently, very still.

 

“Should I?”

 

Optimus groaned, feeling _tired_ just for witnessing Technotor dancing non-stop to soundless music on the other side of the Office, since he woke up. Prowl raised one optic ridge.

 

“Continuing.” the SIC handed him a datapad “I have finished the comprehensive annotation of every single ounce of evidence within Ratchet’s room. Photographs are in registry, even a video recording was provided. Now the room is properly catalogued, you may finally get in.”

 

Without waiting for a reply though, Prowl turned on his heels, leaving a gaping Prime and his prancing creation behind.

 

Before Optimus could stand up and grab Technotor by a wrist and drag him to his future room where he would be allowed to dance and prance at will, he was _floored_ by a dozen of unknown autobots whose toys never made it to the shelves, in line, _protesting._

 

“We need medics!”

 

“We had three medics, now we have no one working!”

 

“I need my optics checked, but there is no one to do it!”

 

“My hand fell off and no one will replace it!”

 

“The medbay is closed, my left hip is on a desk waiting, and I can't go back to function lacking it!”

 

More random protests follow, mecha filling his Office, as Optimus literally gives up and plants himself in the chair, just staring and absently nodding to each and every complainer: Technotor, just finished executing a particularly intricate dance move, turned to find his creator smothered and clearly _not_ coping.

 

Walking through the small complaining crowd, he placed a thoughtful hand in his chin and came close to Optimus’ face, standing by the tip of his feet and whispering.

 

“ _Carrier_. I can make them go away. I'm good at providing _distraction_.”

 

Optimus, making his best impression of a statue, numbly nodding at each of the protesting autobots, fleeted a glance to Technotor, pinging him a _please do_ through inner comm.

 

Rubbing his hands together, the mirror-covered, glimmering mech, reflecting the image of every surface of the office and protesting mecha around himself, jumped on the ceiling, globe-moding and _spinning_.

 

* * *

 

 

Driller spinning through the terrain, Scavenger happily followed Shockwave's lead.

 

_Do not fail me, Scavenger._

 

He nodded to himself, hurriedly; of the four commanders, Shockwave was the one he liked the most: amazingly he only asked for things Scavenger could actually do!!! That certainly pumped up his self-esteem.

 

Not to mention his kid was so cute!!!

 

Coming out in the middle of the food court at a human Shopping Centre, following his honed mineral sensors, scaring the hell of people away, he took hold of his instructions, gently provided via _cortical psychic patch_ , and started pillaging jewellery stores in search of the precious gems required.

 

The biggest diamond was tiny in his servos, so he made sure to steal shinnies enough to make up for their lack of size. Certainly Mixmaster could meld them together.

 

* * *

 

 

Together, Streetwise and Groove drove, utterly ignoring the fleeting crowd that screamed a purple and green giant robot was terrorising the Shopping Centre located downtown.

 

They were on strike afterall.

 

“ _Streetwise, Groove, you are needed.”_

 

And had just been summoned by their dear firetruck boss.

 

“Is it about this human commotion we are just passing by?” answered Streetwise.

 

“ _Of course not. We are on strike.”_

 

Streetwise mentally nods. He would have been as mad as Blades if they had taken his Groovy away too.

 

“Then what do you need us for, Hot??” chimed in Groove.

 

“ _Remember our Headquarters?”_

 

Who would forget that dumpster, thought Streetwise.

 

“ _Wouldn't you like to move?”_

 

* * *

 

“Move.”

 

Ratchet actually jumped on his seat in the lab, as a slightly too silent Shockwave approached, pushing him out of the way.

 

“ _Master_ , something bit your processor?”

 

He rubbed on his plating, fleeting a glance at Microtron, quietly sitting on the ground at a corner of the lab, taking a stupidly small – by transformer's standards – datapad from subspace and starting to read.

 

“Report your progress, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet.” he spoke, never taking his visor away from the half-mounted plant on the slab.

 

The medic resumed how he managed to get the protoform plant attached to four main vials, meant to be filled at each time a new basic shell was to be created, with a series of micro-elements in pre-programmed amounts within saline solutions, completely according to the blueprints.

 

Comparing his blueprints with the final result and taking note of the slight modifications, Shockwave nodded to himself, missing the glances Ratchet gave between the helicopter and the micro-mech.

 

“Very well. Go gather one extra energon cube and return to quarters.”

 

He handed Ratchet his own card. An unspoken question hovered between them.

 

“This is my unlimited energon access card. You will take one cube for yourself. You will _need_ the extra cube.”

 

Ratchet minutely stalled, unblinking. The time for the slave synch was approaching, but he wasn't exactly looking forward a deceptive _overload_ meant to lower his firewalls just so he can be easily hacked afterwards.

 

Microtron thoroughly ignored the silent exchange, reading on his corner, a single datacable turning pages by touching tiny feelers on the screen of the Ipad.

 

Shockwave raised his head, tilting it to the left, visor locking with the medic's glare.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I strongly advise against _disobedience_.”

 

Ratchet sighed. His slave ration the previous day at the mess hall amounted to less than a tenth of a full cube, and he worked non-stop at the lab. No matter the reason behind Shockwave’s _reward_ , his systems would certainly welcome the extra ration.

 

Not that he could avoid the mind-rape anyway, and it was certainly better to face it with a tank full.

 

Finally, Ratchet bowed exaggeratedly and hastily left, Shockwave staring at him all the way.

 

* * *

 

 

The constructicons hastily cleared the way as the ground shook and a drill came through it, revealing then Scavenger's shovel, releasing a dozen computer carcasses on the ground.

 

“Who would imagine! Scavenger brought junk!!!”

 

Longhaul raised his hands to the air, as Scrapper actually hit his head.

 

“Scavenger... what did you bring it for?”

 

He robot moded, looking around.

 

“Commander Shockwave gave me a series of blueprints.” he handed Mixmaster a truckload of gems from subspace, then brought up his main datacable from his lateral slot, staring at Scrapper. “Please?”

 

The Constructicons recoiled: they hated receiving blueprints by crude hardline. Scavenger stepped to them, cable out, optics beaming pleadingly: either that, or they would have to _gestalt._

 

* * *

 

 

The gestalt team, reunited, got into a collective hug: First Aid finally relaxed his shoulders.

 

“I was so tired of being alone in this Primus damned medbay!”

 

“No worries, First.” Groove chimed, resting on a chair, feet on Ratchet's desk. “So, what's our first task, especially for you?”

 

He fleeted a glance to the two closest slabs, each containing a dismembered yet still alive autobot. Cracking his knuckles, Hot Spot smirked, and Blades cruelly poked Perceptor's pieces with one of his hands.

 

“Scientists!”

 

Groove stood up, practically jumping before the slab and dislodging Blades.

 

“You'd think they would ever learn.”

 

First Aid shared a glance with Blades, handing him an energon scalpel and _winking_ , as Streetwise shook his head.

 

“Ok, folks. Let's fix them and make this place _home._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

Ratchet stepped in the mess hall of his current _home_ , quickly getting to the energon dispenser and taking one full cube. The place was empty and he hoped not to gather attention.

 

Hoped.

 

“My, my, autobot _medic_. What a surprise to see you unattended.”

 

_Starscream._

 

“I am here under Shockwave's direct orders, _Commander_ Starscream.”

 

 _“Sure_ you do.” Starscream came close, snatched the card from his hands, turned it around, then gave it back “I wonder what deeds you did to be _rewarded_. Wouldn't Megatron love to know.”

 

Ratchet actually stalled for a fraction of a second.

 

“I completed an important step in a personal project.”

 

“Personal.” the seeker measured him from head to pedes “I honestly can't see what that _insipid_ scientist saw in a ground-pounder like _you_.”

 

Despite his own anger, Ratchet recalled the full display of Shockwave's side _abilities_ : calculating, cold and nearly unfeeling, sure: _Insipid_?

 

If only Starscream knew.

 

“I have no obligation to justify myself to you, Starscream. I’m not your slave.”

 

At that, full of contempt, intent in despising Starscream just because he _could_ , Ratchet filled not only the one, but also a second and finally a third cube, snickering as he walked past the seeker.

 

“I wonder. Wouldn't it be better if you were Megatron's _glitch,_ or even a slave with access to an unlimited card, instead of your meagre half-cube rations?”

 

He rolled the card between his fingers in his free hand, then stored it into subspace, leaving Starscream fuming behind, taking the three cubes along.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Technotor tagged along, sauntering and prancing as Optimus recalled dumbstruck the ease with which his glittering _creation_ got rid of the protesters – by tricking them into partying somewhere else, with light and music.

 

If he put himself into taking over leadership, he would actually get through and overthrow the Prime.

 

Happily, he is an autobot, not an evil, scheming decepticon.

 

And slightly too inclined to fun to his own taste.

 

“Can you stop for a second? I’m trying to get you into your new quarters!”

 

Technotor blinked, placing both hands over his mouthplate, as Optimus shook his head, keeping his pace going at Ratchet’s room.

 

* * *

 

 

Going to his _master_ 's room, Ratchet stopped by the door, taking a deep in-vent.

 

The medic did his best, yet failing, to avoid staring: Shockwave not only was connected via _cortical psychic pat_ _c_ _h_ to Microtron, but also currently fuelled his little _clone_ from his modified fuel line with purified, processed, cybertronium-rich, nanite-filled energon.

 

Taking a long glance, Ratchet focused at the purple biolights glimmering from newspark to carrier as they pulsed and Microtron already dozed, curled on one datacable around his own waist, the moment Shockwave decided to drone.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. You took longer than expected...”

 

Ratchet then unsubspaced the three cubes, _smirking_ , as Shockwave dimmed his visor.

 

“...and more cubes than supposed to. Do you have a good explanation?”

 

Consciously avoiding to stare at the energon glowing reverse-fueling line right besides Shockwave’s exposed purplish folds, he felt a rush of heat come up his own closed plates, then replied.

 

“Starscream showed up in my way and I was angry.”

 

Placing two cubes at the desk, ignoring the sudden warmth filling his faceplates, pretending he felt fine, he offered one to Shockwave, opening a large smirk.

 

“But at least now you don’t need to leave the room to refuel, _master._ ”

 

Shockwave merely stared, not a clue on what went through his mind, laid on his side, interface panel wide open revealing everything, without a single hint of shame or pride, as Shockwave finally accepted the cube, then spoke.

 

“Place the card on the desk, and have your cube now.”

 

He obeyed, hungry in more than one level, hurriedly getting one of the full cubes from the desk, heading to the chair and sitting, rolling it in his fingers, as he observed Shockwave take from a surface pocket his metallic straw, sticking it into the cube and fitting the flexible end in his intake.

 

Ratchet's optics widened at the sight of the open intake, added to the open panel, the flowing energon, and he offlined his optics, for two full seconds, willing his own systems to quiet down.

 

“Anything bothering you, Chief Medical Officer?”

 

Ratchet shook his head, actually gulping almost half a cube in one go.

 

At a _plop_ , he stared at Shockwave, energon cable undulating back and properly slotting into jack, as the logical mech briefly inspected his _inner panels_ , finally manually closing them, an additional locking sound following suite, as the energon cube slowly emptied itself into the intake through the straw.

 

Ratchet shallowed, almost tasting the air as the half-cube hit his systems at once, letting him dizzy and he almost numbly stood up and stepped close to his master, recalling the progress bars were almost going red and he had to be synced, blinking and barely avoiding to expose his own medical port for connection, gobbling down the last half of his cube, expecting to be force-hacked again.

 

Shockwave turned his head to him as he came close, visor never flickering once, then actually shifted his glance as the medic stared between the sleeping Microtron and the purple cable, waiting.

 

Three full minutes of silence passed between them.

 

“Anything _wrong_ , Chief Medical Officer?”

 

Ratchet managed to rake Shockwave's whole frame without moving his optics, unblinking.

 

“No.”

 

Shockwave nodded, discarding his now empty energon cube on his slave's hands.

 

“Guard your extra energy for the manufacture of the project, in the morning: the plans remain the same. Have an eventful recharge, Chief Medical Officer.”

 

He turned on his side, offlining his visor, as Ratchet stalled.

 

“Will that be all?”

 

Shockwave then turned _on_ his visor, facing the medic.

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“But I brought you energon. Two extra cubes!”

 

“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. Need I explain why there will not be a slave synch for you tonight, or are you intelligent enough to infer?”

 

Ratchet groaned.

 

“I abused your trust and disobeyed a direct order, bringing more than the one cube I was ordered to.”

 

Shockwave nodded, as Ratchet fleeted a glance at Microtron, recharging peacefully connected to his creator.

 

“...and it might have been unfair of mine to compare Microtron’s existence to that of the _experimental_ newsparks you intend to create with unbonded subjects for testing the _Spark Condenser_ project.”

 

“No. In that you were absolutely correct. Microtron was as random as any potential newspark. Why should I put him at more face value than any other? The illogical and unfair mech was me in letting my quasi-emotional reaction rule my judgement back then.”

 

Ratchet blinked.

 

“...but he’s your _kid_! Of course you would be displeased!”

 

“Unfairly displeased. You were brutally honest, unbiased, and unmistakably _logical_ , and for that I do not blame you. However, you are indeed having the synch delayed because of the unauthorised cubes.”

 

Ratchet gaped, but held himself. He wasn’t going to beg for the synch.

 

“Now, Chief Medical Officer. Do you still have any questions? Or perhaps a request?”

 

Ratchet shook his head, as Shockwave nodded, finally offlining his visor and curling on his side towards his creation, as the medic’s bars reached red and he suddenly stood very still _._


	23. Still Waters

Very still, looking through the windows at an upper corridor as a school of fish passed through, Starscream moped.

  


Blasted planet. Blasted fish. Blasted barnacles!

  


Everything rusts or dissolves in this uncomely brine.

  


At least he had the throne room for himself and could watch _human_ cable, now that Megatron was off for the night, Shockwave was certainly busy mindfragging or just plain _fragging_ his _slave_ and Soundwave seemed to be blissfully away from surveillance.

  


Starscream zapped the channels, stopping by one program about Energy Sources in National Geographic, watching it for a while and harrumphing: If he were the leader, not the idiot fool, they would have already changed to a solid ground base, and at least captured Earth and managed to siphon its resources into energon back to Cybertron.

  


As the TV feed ran on the background, his processor whirred in activity: he was a brilliant scientist, whose field of speciality is precisely on Energy Sources, and he knew so much more than those _humans_ that it was almost not funny to sit idly watching them babble on what they do not know.

  


For example, Starscream helped set up their geothermal undersea stations, truly useful to keep the base running and producing a small yet steady amount of energon each cycle; the continuous ocean water current flowing through the Nemesis' modified turbines also helped. Not to mention the only reason why they had solar collectors littering the lift and the hull, at all, was because Starscream was very _insistent_ with their idiotic leader, and during the peak solar activity, some more energy was eventually cubed, daily.

  


Not that he had been any thanked: according to Megatron, it was his duty, and thus he should be glad he didn't screw up _this task as well._

  


Starscream sighed: all the energy cubed was never enough though, and the Decepticons were always in a way or another half-starving.

  


His mind bubbled with ideas as the program passed on TV: his attention was immediately picked as the documentary went on about the subject of pre-salt layer oil, under the flat bed of the Atlantic, right by the continental plate of South America, nearly completely unexplored.

  


Hmmmm.

  


Undersea petrol sources.

  


Ready for Decepticon taking.

  


They did live in an undersea base, right?

  


Human tech still did not advance enough, except for a few experimental Brazilian oil platforms located there: the decepticons would have hundreds of years before any humans even found out they were siphoning energy from them.

  


Starscream nodded to himself. Nothing like concentrated hydrocarbons to make life _good_.

  


His idea would be certainly successful and prove the old buckethead that he, Starscream, was the fittest to become leader. He only needed his Trine to cook up a plan, and maybe the Constructicons later.

  


He hurriedly stood up, and went to his own room, quietly.

  


* * *

 

  


Quietly, Technotor and Optimus stepped into Ratchet's deserted, dark quarters, the Prime turning the lights on.

  


“Technotor. These will be your quarters now.”

  


The shiny mech nodded vigorously, somersaulting once and making a pose at no-one and nowhere, stretching his right arm up, strutting his hip left, feet spread apart.

  


“This is ultra-gear! I need to immediately globe-mode and start analysing the _ambient_ during a full _recharge_ before I can compile new music!”

  


Optimus sighed as his creation indeed globe-moded and glued to the ceiling, no shines, no music, just a subsonic thrumm of systems working under recharge.

  


At the silence, Optimus raked his optics around the room, noticing the controlled chaos on the desk and shelves, among the piled datapads and one nearly empty high-grade energon cube left on the berth.

  


Taking the leftover high-grade cube in hands, Optimus actually shook his head.

  


“Better I take this away. Good recharge, Technotor.”

  


He left.

  


Even before the room's door had been properly closed, the rest of the high-grade cube was finished in one go, the memory of _Ratchet_ flowing from his spark, his own battlemask locking back in face.

  


* * *

 

  


Facing back his mortal _nemeses_ , who wouldn’t stop _chiming_ , Shockwave’s sparkless drone blinked his single optic in annoyance as he kicked open the door.

  


“Stop! What are you doing? This is my house!!!”

  


Firestar hid behind Nautica, who walked towards the significantly taller mech, looking up, defiant.

  


“We are here to make a _proposal_.”

  


The drone tilted his head, cocking his arm canon.

  


“You cannot defeat the Mighty Shockwave!”

  


“Cut the nonsense. We aren’t here to fight. You’re getting _invited_ to our S _parkbonding_ Ceremony.”

  


The drone blinked, lowering his arm: he didn’t have an automated response for getting _invited_ to anything.

  


“Invited?”

  


“It’s a party to commemorate our _union_! As if you never had one. All you are supposed to do to participate is give us an _energon_ Sparkbonding gift!”

  


The drone raised his right index in the air, stopped mute for a second, then blinked his optic.

  


“Excuse me.”

  


He bolted inside, closing the door on their faces: Firestar and Nautica glued their audials to the door, listening to the Drone First speak.

  


“ _Mighty Shockwave, they are listening behind the door.”_

  


The purple drone opened the door then, staring straight at the two female autobots.

  


“Excuse. Me.”

  


Both autobots shifted on their feet, ashamed. The towering cyclops closed the door back for an instant, then opened again it, staring down at both females.

  


“I, the Mighty Shockwave, accept the invitation. First!”

  


At this, the cyclops gave room for his own drone to step out, bringing a truckload of energon.

  


“Is this an acceptable gift?”

  


Nautica and Firestar widened their optics, opening a large _smile_ , and the cyclops hummed, nodding; it can’t be considered stealing if he freely gave them the _energon cubes_.

  


* * *

 

 

“Energon cubes!!!”

  


Ratchet, thrumming in _anxiety_ at his master’s room, blinked back to reality, turning to face Microtron, wide awake and disconnecting himself from the still recharging Shockwave.

  


“….weren’t you supposed to keep recharging connected to your carrier, lad?”

  


Microtron blinked, turning his face to his carrier, whom he briefly inspected for any spilled, leftover processed energon, sagging minutely, then hugged very tight with a datacable, and finally turned to look back at the medic, tilting his camera-head and shrugging.

  


“I’m very hungry.”

  


He wormed a single datacable out, captured one of the energon cubes in the desk, brought it to the berth where he was, cracked the lid open and delicately inserted the datacable in, spreading the feelers inside the swirling liquid and started to fuel, like Shockwave taught him to, completely ignoring the medic.

  


Ratchet on his side did his best impression of a statue, ignoring the little _clone_ and trying not to move too much.

  


He was uncomfortably _warm_ , his self-regulation systems unable to keep his temperature down; his systems were consuming the energon cube he gobbled down without mercy, forcing the production and storage of transfluid, and to make things worse, his interface cable was threatening to pressurise inside jacket, and all feeling and sensation had been turned off from his usually unused, currently very dry red port, his systems calibrated exclusively into _male_ mode.

  


The _tight fit_ would have been almost _welcome_ if it weren’t for one problem: He couldn’t just head to the washracks or to _anymech_ to seek any kind of relief, because the cable not only was locked inside jack, but the panels also wouldn’t open without _master’s_ command.

  


Trust him, he tried, and he has his own scratches in his interface panel to prove.

  


So that was the agony Shockwave spoke about. Perpetual arousal without resolution as long as the synch didn’t take place, zeroing the bars, or…

  


Microtron _cackled_ suddenly retracting the datacable from the energon cube, splashing energon around, then gleefuly staring at the puddles, sending the datacable like a vacuum-cleaner with its feelers wide at the spread energon, siphoning it in droplets.

  


Ratchet, diverted from his thoughts, shook his head, turning a quick glance at the recharging Shockwave, the image of the silent carrier and his angled, scarred left shoulder mesh, wide rounded hip-plates and protruding cockpit chestpiece _burning_ his optics, his fans nearly clicking on, doing his best to remain very, very _quiet._

  


* * *

 

  


The quiet in Optimus' room was broken by his noisily shifts on his berth, acting out his dreams, currently _filled_ with ancient memories from before his Primedom.

  


Fleeting glances of cyan blue optics and a heated white frame invaded his plates, scorching, blazing his senses into his full lit array, _hipside_ connection locking into place, bypassing medical cable doubling as extra stimuli right into his main dataport, from a time clearly belonging to before his acceptance of the Matrix.

  


He knew it was a memory sequence slotted into a dream and right now couldn't care less; on the rare moments his processor acknowledged the dream as it was, he had the option to literally _ride_ the flux.

  


And ride he did.

  


In dreams like these he rode like he never did, he rode like it were proper, he rode it like his own spark needed it, searing white light filling his sight from their shared chestplates, no Matrix Crystal in between to judge and contempt and decide with whom or how he should interact.

  


The Power that came with it sometimes wasn't worth the inconvenience of losing your own choices in life for the greater Good.

  


Now cold, numb, cursing loudly at his currently silent _Matrix_ for having been chosen Prime, regrettably aware of his ending dream, Optimus stood up and left his room, shaking off his recharge.

  


* * *

 

  


Coming out of recharge, Soundwave asked himself what he was doing piled up with cassettes dozing all over his frame, after having literally _lost_ the whole day in useless slumber.

  


As far as he recorded, he had come to lecture and punish them for disobedience, then..

  


Menace.

  


The little _ladybee_ had one potentially useful skill afterall.

  


Good. Soundwave despite loving his creations, always made sure they would be _useful_ , good decepticons to further the cause, on their own pace, for their own _good_ as well.

  


Even in the event Soundwave one day perished during the war, and all creations were finally unbonded from his direct safety net, he had to make sure each one would have their place in the army and skills to live by.

  


Every good creator had to make sure of this.

  


Opening his tapedeck and sending a wordless ping to each of his creations, all of them woke up, grumbled, tape-moded and got in.

  


Now he knew what she could do, he had armour, weapons and subroutines to install into Menace's frame, and his own _firewalls_ to strengthen up: it wouldn't do to get knocked out by his own creations, and if anything, Soundwave was efficient and deadly in his total mastery and command of his _symbionts._

  


Time to go to the Constructicon's Bay.

  


* * *

 

 

The Constructicon Scavenger, currently alone in his nightly shift, soldering metal with his mask on, stood up hurriedly and saluted with the soldering iron on his forehead, hissing smoke, as Soundwave strolled in, regally.

  


“Commander Soundwave!”

  


Soundwave nodded in dismissal, peeking at the myriad of scattered junk on the ground, paying special attention to what Scavenger had been tinkering with.

  


“Query: objective?”

  


The construction stopped saluting, absently rubbing his forehead and smudging the dark spot of blackened metal now resting there, and turned the soldering iron off.

  


“Commander Shockwave ordered a private project done.”

  


Soundwave nodded, staring at the confusing collection of plates, screens, and slim grey cables.

  


“Soundwave: also requires personal aid.”

  


He ejected a drowsy Menace, taking her from tape mode and handing him the sleeping bug. He didn't need saying what he wanted done.

  


The construction had done armour any times to all of his creations.

  


Scavenger cradled the cassette, mumbling mumbo-jumbo at her and placing her into a slab, taking a monocle and his delicate instruments, procuring cassette-sized armoured plates, as Soundwave peeked further in to the _project_ Shockwave had ordered.

  


A neat series of what looked like sparkless minicons piled the slab where Scavenger had been previously working at. All seemed to possess a CRT screen for a head, CPU's for trunk, and cabled limbs, a very simplified version of Microtron himself.

  


Soundwave knew better than to disturb Scavenger while he worked on plating his newest cassette, thus he refrained from hacking him right now to get to the blueprints of Shockwave's new idea.

  


So Shockwave decided making his creation a batch of drones: to what effect, Soundwave didn't yet know, but soon he would. He was patient.

  


Scavenger wouldn't take forever.

  


* * *

 

  


It took forever, but finally the protectobots could rest.

  


Stasis-locked yet repaired to First Aid's best abilities, Wheeljack and Perceptor rested on the slabs, full of fresh welds and lacking proper paintjob, spark-rate monitored.

  


Streetwise and Groove decided going on a nightly stroll, Hot Spot was taking a nap: feet propped up the desk, First Aid had his visor offline, humming tonelessly.

  


Life was finally good. They had a decent place with cable and Wi-Fi. Blades proved to be a _fine_ if not slightly too triggerhappy nurse, and they had the whole bay for themselves, tonight.

  


“Excellent, now buff the other.”

  


Blades shifted from the left to the right _hand_ , snickering with a wink as he worked the bufferer and First Aid let go a more than content sigh.

  


Sensitive hands. The night promises.

  


Nothing could disturb it. Right?

  


_Knock-knock._

  


Blades groaned, screaming at the locked door.

  


“We're on strike, go away!”

  


“ _I am aware. I'm here to talk.”_ the door spoke.

  


The two protectobots shared a glance, First Aid finally nodding, as Blades grumbled and unlocked the door, locking his guns to shoot.

  


Optimus Prime walked in, shoulders low, glancing down.

  


“I give up and I'm here. You guys did it. You finally did it.”

  


“Actually, we didn't do _anything._ ” First Aid shifted on his feet.

  


“Yet.” Blades added, lowering his guns: First Aid nearly slapped him, looking at Optimus, who ignored them and sat himself unceremoniously at a slab, remembering his dream.

  


“I had the crappiest day ever, and I'm very, very tired. Please just... fix it.”

  


First Aid and Blades shared a look. Optimus asking them for help?

  


It was their opportunity to make demands!

  


“Then maybe you should have seen Rung. It's not my attribution to do the upper processor. I'm a surgeon, Prime, with all due respect.”

  


“Yup, and if I recall well, you were denying my First the right to train his own faithful nurse - _me_. Something on all helicopters being _insane_.”

  


_Primus, how much I_ _ **hate**_ _the mere sight of Ambulances and Helicopters together_.

  


Optimus shook his head. There had to be _another_ decepticon tainting his autobot's ways like this. Why couldn't they just be good autobots and say _yes sir_?

  


Wasn't it enough that Optimus literally overrode his panic and hatred of medics and willingly walked inside the medbay to specifically ask for help? Can't they see how difficult that was?

  


If only they removed the smug look in their faces.

  


Finally slumping on his place, Optimus sighed.

  


“First Aid. Blades. I am _sorry._ I was wrong. You aren't insane.”

  


“Actually, yes, I'm really _insane_.” nodded vigorously Blades “Something about spinning rotors scrambling your neural net.”

  


Optimus blinked, repeatedly.

  


“Blades, you aren't helping.” First Aid facepalmed, turning abruptly to Optimus “So you are saying you are sorry you denied me help?”

  


Optimus nodded, and before he gave First Aid the chance to change his spark, he just plain laid on his back and opened his lateral medical port, waiting. First Aid scratched his head.

  


“Hum. Sir, I'm not Strongarm to just plain hack in and...”

  


“Just do it already!!!”

  


Blades crossed his arms.

  


“Say please. Be _nice_ to my First.”

  


_Why me? Why meee?_

  


“ _Please._ ”

  


Nodding, content, First Aid took hold of his medical cable, _plunging_ in.


	24. Dangerous Minds

Soundwave plunged into Scavenger's mind as soon as Menace's plating was done.

  


With one datacable slotted at each side of the constructicon's head, twin biolights pulsing a navy blue tone, he managed to gather the whole facts: Wi-Fi telepathy alone wouldn't have given him blueprints and directives, and as long as Shockwave was involved, certainly technicalities that were impossible to mind-read would always be present.

  


As he cautiously reviewed the many details of Shockwave's pet project for his newspark, Soundwave shook his head.

  


Looks like Shockwave was about to take the idea of “ _making_ friends” a little too far.

  


Microtron certainly would be in for a surprise, he pondered, as Menace, now awake, flapped her wings and buzzed hovering Soundwave's head.

  


“Menace: desist. Soundwave's firewalls currently reinforced against your pranks.”

  


The bee landed atop the slab, pinging Soundwave once. He shook his head.

  


“World: does not hate Menace. New armour: fundamental. Reassurance: Menace _not_ punished.”

  


The mechanic bee actually leapt and made eights in the air before Soundwave's optics, buzzing as he recollected his datacables, leaving Scavenger unconscious with his forehead atop a droneling's chest on the slab.

  


* * *

 

  


On the slab, Wheeljack took his time awakening from what looked like the scrapping of the millennia.

  


He really needed to remind himself not to confuse the fuchsia and the magenta wires ever again.

  


Actually, he should stick to good old white, black, yellow, green, red and blue code. It was much more difficult to make wrong.

  


Blinking his side faceplates twice, he stared down.

  


Thanks Primus for pain suppressants and the art of surgery. The leftover criss-crossed welds were a work of _art_.

  


Abstract art.

  


At least he was whole and functioning.

  


Standing up, he looked around in search of First Aid, only to find in the last far slab that he and Blades were surrounding the body of...

  


“Prime?”

  


Blades made a _shhh_ with a finger before his face: puzzled, Wheeljack approached.

  


“Wasn't Prime avoiding the medbay? What happened?”

  


Blades merely reiterated the need for silence, as First Aid, glassed visor unfocused, remained immersed into Optimus' mind, through their light blue biolight-glowing link.

  


* * *

 

  


The purple biolights glowed, pulsing serene, one end disconnected over the berth, the other linked to its owner, Shockwave, peacefully recharging, as Microtron idly probed the free _cortical psychic patch_ with the four feelers of one datacable spread wide, trying twice to _vacuum_ it into his cable’s fuelling line without success.

  


“Why can’t I get processed energon from it? What’s that?”

  


Ratchet, deeply bothered by his _condition_ , was currently sitting at the desk, immobile, having just taken in hands the datapad containing the _Spark Condenser_ blueprints, sighing.

  


“This is your carrier’s medical link, to which you should have remained attached, recharging.”

  


Microtron nodded, ignoring the subtle instruction to link himself back, clicking his claws together and approaching the medic slowly, cable undulating in the air behind his back, right claw scratching his giant red optic, walking towards the desk.

  


Before Ratchet could ask him what he was doing, the too tactile mechling clung to Ratchet's left arm, looking up hopefully at him and tilting his head, as one datacable crept slowly to embrace his waist.

  


“I liked a _lot_ to see you re-implant carrier's arm back. So much _fluid._ And the _gelled_ energon. Promise we’ll do it again sometime?”

  


Demonstrating an unnerving lack of care about personal space – much like a certain _scientist_ did whenever hacking with his purple medical cable _–_ the little _cannibal_ unceremoniously flung himself on the medic's lap, chirping and clicking like a newly released newspark, optic off, rocking back and forth.

  


His HUD registering the word _newspark_ in place as soon as Microtron touched him, Ratchet noticed with great relief his interfacing subroutines and drive subdue to near zero, bringing him immense peace of mind.

  


_Interesting_.

  


Before he could enjoy the lack of _agony_ any further, as he held the _kid_ close, the door hung open with a hydraulic hiss, heavy steps filling the room.

  


He didn't dare look behind, but the _kid_ onlined his single red optic and did, waving one datacable into a hello to the looming shadow, single red optic beaming as he pulled himself up to the huge mech's arms through the creepy-crawly datacables.

  


Absolutely not willing to show the _medic_ he _knew_ how to hold a newspark, Megatron just allowed Microtron to cling the best way he could through the datacables, both hands clasped behind his back, as Ratchet stalled minutely, his interfacing _drive_ returning slowly as soon as the last inch of the mechling’s mesh stopped touching his own shell.

  


He _had_ never been so glad for small mercies: he would hate himself if he had kept thinking on _fragging_ Shockwave while a newspark rested above his lap.

  


“Microtron is... friendly.” Megatron cleared his voicebox, interrupting Ratchet’s thoughts and shifting his glare to the recharging Shockwave “What schedule did my _Chief_ _Science Officer_ put you under, that you have such free reign of the room while he recharges?”

  


Ratchet blinked, standing up as his interfacing cable pulsed in long waves inside jack, his EM-field nearly wobbling as he did his best to hold it in place, looking up to the decepticon leader.

  


“No specific schedule, _Lord_ Megatron.” he extended the datapad, trying not to shake his hand “He’s working on a project meant to create a... a non-personal factory of sparked decepticons.”

  


Megatron briefly analysed the datapad, ignoring the medic’s inner struggle, Microtron now resting comfortably on the tyrant’s left side.

  


“I see.” he handed the datapad back to the medic “At least he isn't trying to inject his own self with predacon CNA to try to create a clutch of predacon _eggs_ anymore.”

  


Ratchet nearly _whimpere_ _d_ at the mental image of his master with both legs spread wide open and laying an egg, shaking it away and remembering _very well_ Megatron’s purple griffin fiasco.

  


Suddenly it explained _so_ much.

  


Megatron snickered, clamping his right hand on the medic's shoulder and squeezing, as Ratchet _squirmed_ , sensors burning at the touch.

  


“I had a _good_ report on your work at the new Lab. Shockwave may think I never read them, but I do, _medic._ ” he approached his face, growling low. “I don't trust _you_. As long as he vouches for you, and nothing suspicious comes out of you, however, I don't _mind your presence_.”

  


Ratchet stared, impassive in his _anxiety_ , his systems locking his speech as he pondered about the possibility of _uncovering_ his master’s Shockwave _real_ amoral self.

  


If Megatron _knew._

  


The tyrant handed the currently recharging newspark back into Ratchet's arms, the medic visibly _relaxing_ as Megatron walked to the berth, going military-stance.

  


“Shockwave. Report.”

  


The recharging mech lighted his visor on and off twice, suddenly recollecting his purple medical cable and finally jolting into a standing up position, right before the larger mech.

  


“Lord Megatron. What do I owe the honour?”

  


Shockwave tilted his head, right knee almost giving away as he nearly moved into a knelt down position, following protocol _._

  


Megatron prevented him, grounding him by his shoulder, giving a cruel smirk as he ran three fingertips, slowly clawing the glass of his chestplate with a screeching noise, then sending a comm ping.

  


_Not before the help._

  


To the outsider, a silent second passed between them. Shockwave nodded, as Megatron left the room.

  


Finally, once the door was closed, Shockwave sat back on the berth, hand lingering in his own chestplate, smoothing the light scratch.

  


Ratchet, now more puzzled than ever, holding the newspark, with his upper thought processes temporarily intact and unencumbered with the need to _interface_ , watched the display.

  


“Anything wrong, _master_?”

  


Quickly steeling himself and standing up, remembering he wasn't alone, Shockwave took the four paddles from the corner, fitting them on his back, meticulously.

  


“Why there should be, Chief Medical Officer?”

  


Ratchet almost snorted, Microtron in arms, seizing the moment of mental peace.

  


“Please. Drop the unfeeling act. There is something troubling you.”

  


Shockwave glowered his visor darkly, clicking the last paddle in, walking to the other mech and _snatching_ Microtron from his arms, being reminded once more of the intrusive Decepticon Matrix.

  


Unquestionably, it had provided him his - so long ago wanted, not really expected anymore - newspark, and for that he was grateful.

  


Considering the unexpected _attachment_ he had developed to _his_ Microtron, he could entirely understand _now_ why the idea of strapping his own self to the berth and getting sparked for the Decepticon Cause would _not_ work as source of warriors: Shockwave would NEVER let them out of his sight for too long.

  


Not to mention his own history of bad shots and Microtron's delicate _nature_ meant his newsparks would never really be up to fight: he had always been a scientist.

  


On secondary thought, how was Shockwave supposed to balance his scientific career if he ever ended up with a truckload of newsparks?

  


For a fleeting second Shockwave imagined himself surrounded by dozens of creations of differing faceplates from buckethead helmets to finials and even helmets _with_ finials, and optics, from one to two to _three_ , and colours, from grey to purple – all of them gunformers, obviously! - sitting on the ground as he read them a berthtime story featuring the full details of the Predacon Cloning process before recharge.

  


He would certainly need a _bigger_ Lab.

  


Shaking his mental image away, Shockwave could finally _understand_ on an intellectual level why Soundwave would forever keep his creations in cassette-sized frames, bound to him physically in juvenile shells for everything including fuel, working directly under his orders.

  


Finally, realising he had gone silent for quite a while during his musings, Shockwave spat back.

  


“You know _nothing_ , autobot _._ ”

  


He laid the newspark in the berth, petting the camera head once, turning to the medic, who was fully back into active _interfacing_ protocols and struggling yet failing not to show.

  


“Apropos, out of scientific curiosity, how are you dealing with the _consequences_ of your disobedience?”

  


Squinting, Ratchet inhaled and approached his _master_ , looking him optic to visor, as the heliformer tilted his head to the right and the medic’s optics momentarily darted to the crook of his neck.

  


“Frag you, Shockwave.”

  


“You _wish_ , Chief Medical Officer.”

  


Outraged, Ratchet turned on his back, interface cable _pinging_ desperately to be let out, transfluid tank full.

  


“You are aware that your rebellious behaviour earns you no points with me.”

  


Ratchet folded arms, doing his best to ignore his master, Shockwave staring at him the whole time, _thinking._

  


“Your current orders, Chief Medical Officer Ratchet, are to take good care of Microtron. I highly recommend you take him with you everywhere. You know what _happens_ if you get out of touching range.”

  


Ratchet glowered, a cruel _gleam_ in his optics, which Shockwave ignored and droned further, walking to the door.

  


“My Lord has requested my presence and I shall comply. Excuse me.”

  


Ratchet nodded, his EM-field tightly held in place, as Shockwave nodded back, leaving.

  


Once the door was closed, the medic offlined his optics, in-venting deeply and letting his EM-field finally come out of his plating, anger, arousal and regret surrounding his spark, pulsing in bright blue waves.

  


* * *

 

  


The bright blue spark whirled in place as First Aid closed Optimus’ chestplate, trapping the Matrix inside. Wheeljack, hypnotised by the sight of Prime's spark and the Matrix, merely blinked, as Blades helped an exhausted First Aid into a seat.

  


“So?”

  


The medic shook his head.

  


“I went as deep as I could. Despite his claim, there isn't anything to _fix_.”

  


Wheeljack, puzzled, tilted his head, staring. Blades pursed his lips.

  


“So actually you didn't solve anything? Does that mean he will revoke our demands?”

  


“I don't think so. I made his _condition_ more tolerable, and I indeed helped. I managed to install a patch, but there are lines you do not cross. I don’t _delete_ memory files.”

  


_Delete what? What condition?_ The scientist asked himself, hovering uncomfortably close to Optimus.

  


First Aid, noticing Wheeljack was getting too nosy, motioned with his head towards Perceptor, still unconscious on a slab: Blades, now sporting his improvised nurse crosses, crude silvery metal soldered directly into his plating, on both shoulders, nodded back.

  


Time to make the sleeping beauty rise and shine from the slab.

  


* * *

 

  


Rising up from slumber over the slab, Scavenger's visor shone through the dark and the dust particles at the Medbay, as he looked around, clueless on how he ended up atop a droneling.

  


Slag, he shouldn't recharge during his shift!

  


Shaking his head, his shovel-tail swung right and left as he walked around the room, frantically: he had nearly finished assembling the parts according to instruction, and could hardly wait for Shockwave to come by later to inspect on them.

  


Maybe he would even get complimented.

  


Beaming, he went back to work: he had still a couple of hours before sunrise.

  


* * *

 

  


Sunrise still evaded the Ark, the precise moment Blades slapped a hand behind Wheeljack and Perceptor's heads, making them stumble away from the medbay.

  


“Now you two leave us the Well alone, we are still on strike!” and slammed the door shut.

  


Outside the corridor, Perceptor shook his head, still dizzy from being awoken, as Wheeljack stretched.

  


“So, Percy, ready to go back to testing for Science???”

  


The microscope nodded, numbly walking there, mumbling something about _for Science indeed._

  


* * *

 

  


“Indeed.”

  


Skywarp projected himself out of the berth, VOPing away to the ceiling, hitting it and falling back right into Thundercracker's lap, as Starscream loomed into the room and the blue jet finished throwing his purple counterpart on the ground.

  


“Talking to yourself again, Screamer??” Skywarp rubbed his aft, slowly standing up.

  


“Shut up, you overgrown oaf.” He strolled in, pushing Thundercracker aside and taking his place on the berth “Not my fault you can't grasp my degree of scientific advancement and follow my trail of thought.”

  


“What does _Trail_ breaker has to do with anything?”

  


“Please, Warp, no.” Thundercracker rubbed his forehead “And what did your amazing intellect come up with now, Starscream?”

  


Starscream smirked, as his trinemates recoiled, unaware about the fact he had just watched the satellite feed right into Megatron's throne room, under Soundwave's proverbial nose.

  


He cleared his voicebox, starting to expose the subject of undersea oil deposits to his trinemates.

  


Thundercracker followed his lead, as Skywarp stared at the ceiling, bored, continuously poking the blue seeker's side. Starscream continued on the feasibility of exploration of the undersea oil as a _future_ plan for mankind's current mild energy crisis, added to the details on footage of a grievous accident unfortunately entirely human-made, resulting in the sinking of Petrobrás P-36 platform, containing 1.500 million litres of unprocessed petrol.

  


Petrol that was deemed technically impossible to recover under the guise of mankind's current technology, not to mention the risk of spillage into the ocean as soon as a rescue team attempted getting to it – Greenpeace would have a field day in the event _that_ ever happened.

  


“So you are saying this oil is trapped right under our own _afts_ , unclaimed and given up by the squishies?”

  


Starscream nodded at Thundercracker, who judiciously ignored Skywarp's poking.

  


“Almost like a pirate's sunken treasure chest.”

  


“Ohh, let's dig it Screamer!!” Skywarp suddenly quit poking Thundercracker and draped himself in one VOP all over Starscream's lap, wriggling his optic ridges. “How are you sure no one is guarding the treasure anyway?”

  


“Of course it's completely unguarded!” he pushed Skywarp off his lap, making him land with a _yelp_ “It isn't like the humans _expect_ anyone in this mudball to actually go _there, undersea,_ to steal it anyway. Not even the autobots would be able to prevent us. All we need now is a plan.”

  


He set his back on the berth, Skywarp finally draping himself over their leader, giggling as Starscream beckoned for Thundercracker to join them.

  


They could start planning later.

  


* * *

 

  


“Are you planning in joining _them_ later?”

  


Ramhorn nodded. Eject sighed.

  


“But Ramhorn, they didn’t even wrung out your new _scientifically-able_ mode yet.”

  


Ramhorn shrugged.

  


“Sure, the day Wheeljack stops exploding himself he might be able to finish it.”

  


Ramhorn shook his head vigorously, then stomped on the ground once.

  


“No getting mad at me, but Perceptor doesn’t have his screws right as well. Just between us, everything was better when all of us were officially full siblings.”

  


At that Ramhorn cocked his hipside guns, frowning, and Eject rose his hands in defeat.

  


“You know what I mean! Now everyone looks at Blaster and keeps imagining _who_ might have been fragging him back then! Don’t you think I can’t infer what everyone thinks?”

  


The rhino groaned, looking dejectedly at the ground.

  


“Of course our carrier is not like _that._ He _slipped_ , that’s all, and no one really wants knowing who is your daddy, ok, little lug?”

  


Ramhorn sighed, staring up, the moonlight still in the sky despite the early morning.

  


“Me too, bro. Can’t wait to see you talking like us, getting real _smart_ and making science all while sporting your chainguns!”

  


Both high-fived then, heading to the Ark and finally getting inside.

  


* * *

 

  


Finally inside his office, Soundwave rested comfortably at his favourite chair, feet propped up at the console, hands behind his neck, a single blue datacable creeping out of his back and latching to the panel.

  


“Menace: training mission: extensive patrol. Report activity, especially if it involves Starscream.”

  


The bee buzzed once, compliant, leaving the premises, as Soundwave logged onto her video feed, following her progress through the undersea base.

  


He couldn't have left himself recharge like this. He was the Communications Officer. He had duties!

  


Skimming through the camera recordings, he came across the footage of Starscream lounging at Megatron's throne room with one foot propped up the armrest, seemingly watching human television, _very_ focused on the screen.

  


Blinking his visor once and resting his right hand on his chin, the communications officer asked himself what could Starscream be up to now, quickly shifting through the screamer’s access code logs until he found out the seeker was currently in his own room, where Soundwave could detect right now the presence of the full trine.

  


He recalled sadly the amount of times he tried to sneak one of his creations inside the trine's room to install a spy camera, to no avail. Starscream wasn't stupid, and managed to build a lock that recognised only his trine’s specific spark frequencies.

  


A completely inviolable lock, by usual standards. So good that Soundwave had managed to tinker with his and Megatron's lock so they would open only to their specific spark frequencies as well.

  


Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, afterall.

  


Of course he never credited Starscream to his leader. Megatron didn't need to be reminded that Starscream was not only a pretty aft, but also a brilliant mech. His leader was infatuated enough already, and Soundwave didn't want the _competition._

  


Soundwave snorted. Until recently, this type of lock would have been fully inviolable. Unfortunately, or not, Shockwave, being the first registered _outlier_ , could alter his spark frequency to match any he wished, which made him the only mech able to infiltrate the whole base at will.

  


Starscream would go crazy if he stopped to _think_ about it _._

  


Ah well. Let's not make Shockwave aware of this though, not now: Soundwave had keyed Megatron's and Shockwave's own room with his signature as well, both as a show of good will and as a means of not needing to explain his bondmate how this specific kind of lock worked.

  


Evidently, Soundwave keyed Ratchet's spark frequency into Shockwave's door as well: the scientist vouched for the medic, politely requesting Megatron to make him into his personal slave, for he was sorely lacking a competent lab assistant, and would need the occasional _sparksitting_ for his young.

  


Obviously, Megatron complied. He had such blind faith in Shockwave that it was borderline scary.

  


He feared for the day such blind faith _cracked_ and Megatron's frustration took the best out of him.

  


Soundwave shuddered at the thought and the idea.

  


If Shockwave weren't so emotionally blind, and so _devoted_ to the Cause, Soundwave might even suspect he was actually in an _affair_ , actively _fragging_ the medic.

  


* * *

 

  


“Fragging medic!!!”

  


Optimus cursed, blinking his optics slowly as he awoke at the medbay.

  


Searching for his files, he discovered all the memories were still there, intact, albeit no longer associated with hateful regret.

  


Slag it, he wanted his Shanix back! First Aid didn't _fix_ anything!

  


He still remembered his _past._ He wanted it gone, not as a page to be properly turned over.

  


Sitting on the slab and glumly deciding he really, really hated medics, Optimus shook his head and walked away, all alone.

  


* * *

 

  


“What are you doing here all alone?”

  


Perceptor, scope out of his shoulders and resting on the bench, open in a myriad of parts, worked on its apparent reassembly as he ignored Wheeljack's question.

  


Puzzled and scratching his head, Wheeljack visually inspected the defiled scope.

  


He wasn't aware a _microscope_ needed cocking mechanisms, reservoir for bullets and energy cells inside the tube.

  


Fleeting a worried glance at his science bro, he couldn't help flinching as Perceptor rubbed his servos together, mumbling something on needing to comm _Swindle_ for _supplies_.

  


* * *

 

  


“Wh-what do yo-u-u ne-e-ed those sup-pl-pl-plies for?”

  


Ratchet, glad for small mercies and his intact mental faculties for the moment, had Microtron on his lap, secured by the datacables in silent recharge, as Mixmaster took notes of the list of chemicals he requested.

  


“It's for _Master_ Shockwave's Lab Project.”

  


The decepticon nodded, glad for receiving the list in a datapad instead of through mandatory hardline _hacking_ like Shockwave would have done. Pointing Ratchet to a stool, he moved to his chemicals, filling the vials methodically with the requested micronutrients.

  


Shifting a glance at the medic holding Shockwave’s _kid_ on the corner, he shook his head: he hadn't appreciated losing part of their bay for the Commander, but he wasn't bitter about it. The scientist was the one who made them as Devastator, afterall, and for that he was glad. His bondmates balanced him, and as long as no one messed up with his chemicals or with Scavenger, he was _fine_.

  


Labelling the substances by their layman terms, he hummed tonelessly: despite being a nervous wreck and stuttering even in his thoughts, Mixmaster was a brilliant _natural_ chemist: albeit unable to wring up a _written_ formula together, he could reproduce mixtures and substances from spark, not to mention he was the only one capable of conjuring up palatable high-grade from the sludge of energon the decepticons had access to.

  


On his side, Ratchet, sparksitting, obeying to the T Shockwave's orders, completely unable to get into recharge, decided upon speeding up the Spark Condenser project, which was why he ended up with the constructicons in first place: restricted on his orders by his _master_ , there was little else besides remaining coped up on the room and moping, or trying to tinker with Shockwave’s pet project, and who knew, he might even win his _synch_ back by doing his _work_.

  


The clicking of glass vials and cubed chemicals rolled on the background as a closer clicking caught Ratchet's attention: his charge whirred into life, actually scratching his single optic with a stray datacable, waving hello with a second one, and tightly hugging him with a third.

  


Ratchet nodded back to him, releasing him on the ground and letting all the datacables go, except for one he kept firmly holding in hands, and readying himself to gather the chemicals.

  


As soon as he stared at the two vials and one cube of _cybertronium_ , ready to subspace them one by one, he felt the datacable _slip_ and the last thing he saw was Microtron _running_.

  


Freezing in place, feeling the ticking time-bomb of his interfacing protocols slowly _rising_ , Ratchet felt his world spin: optics dilated to a thin rim of blue, he excused himself and left a cackling Mixmaster behind, bolting out of the door.

  


* * *

 

  


Bolting out of Prowl’s Office, Jazz screeched he was sorry, as an outraged SIC glowered towards his retreating self.

  


Still not understanding what he was doing of wrong, the TIC glumly sat on a corner, sulking: he had spent so much time elaborating his _formal_ request to start a traditional courtship, had researched so much on Praxian _customs_ , had even managed to smuggle a _crystal_ from the Crystal Gardens from a black market collector, to what effect??

  


Once more, Prowl simply _refused_ , ordering him out, even after he got on his knees and swore eternal undying love and dedication.

  


His words sending him away stung, still _ringing_ his audials:

  


_The day you find out who deactivated Wheelie, I will sparkbond you._

  


That case should be filed under _impossible police mysteries_ at the Iaconian Archives: Prowl was a fragging, obsessed bastard!

  


Sitting on a corner to sulk, he barely noticed the approach of everyone’s _favourite_ newspark.

  


“Hi! I’m Technotor. You look sad. Can I invite you to a party?”

  


Jazz blinked.

  


“Party? Are ya mad? I’ma busy trying to find Wheelie’s killer!”

  


Technotor flashed his best shiny smile then, flaring his mirrors on and starting to play _Elements of Life_ from _Tiesto_ , extending him his hand.

  


“C’mon, it’s just this once, it can’t hurt! I’m positive after having _fun_ you’ll finally come to a solution!”

  


* * *

 

  


He had finally come to a solution.

  


He would _make_ Shockwave open up the Spacebridge on Cybertron.

  


The Lawyercon steadied himself, walking imposingly to the front of Shockwave’s Tower on Cybertron, in Tarn, ringing the doorbell.

  


Inside, Mighty Shockwave groaned, interrupting his reading of the holographic invitations he and the drone First received to Nautica and Firestar’s sparkbonding.

  


“What does this jerk want?”

  


_DING-DONG_

  


“I’m busy!”

  


_DING-DONG_

  


He went to the door, opening it. The pitch-black Lawyercon adjusted his frilly white wig and handed him an official-looking datacard.

  


“By the Powers conferred to my caste through the Quintessons and the Cybertronian Juridical System, I _order_ you to open up the Space Bridge.”

  


Acting on his automated response program, Mighty Shockwave replied.

  


“I only take _orders_ from Lord Megatron, not you… whoever you are.”

  


“I am the last Lawyercon standing, Justice cannot wait!”

  


“And I’m Lord Megatron’s loyal _Guardian_ of Cybertron.” he cocked his hand blaster into life “And you’re guilty of insubordination. I’m telling Megatron.”

  


The drone turned to his station, ready to _comm_.

  


* * *

 

  


Coming inside the room and locking up the door, Shockwave barely had time to properly kneel down and _submit_ himself to his Lord’s will, as expected, getting instantly pulled towards a pair of gunmetal grey arms and having his EM-field invaded by Megatron’s _imposing_ spark frequency, the warlord approaching his audials with dimmed crimson optics and closing a hand at his mate’s neck.

  


“I don’t _like_ that medic watching over your recharge. I have been a slave once and I know deep inside _how_ the coding works.”

  


Shockwave, EM-field flat, kept staring up, neutral, giving a not-reply.

  


“I assure you the synch bars I have added into the program work with perfection with my _cortical psychic patch_ and there is no _need_ of traditional _slave bonding_ between master and slave, my Lord.”

  


Groaning, Megatron loosened the hand on his neck, keeping it there, thumb grazing Shockwave’s fuel intake lid.

  


“There better not be, Shockwave.”

  


“Absolutely no _need_ , Lord Megatron.” he tilted his head to the right, stepping ahead and purposefully sliding both hands at each side of Megatron’s hips until he cupped his lord’s aft “Have I been summoned with a purpose beyond being reminded, or should I return to quarters now, _my liege_?”

  


Giving a lopsided smirk, Megatron finished popping the lid open, index rimming the entrance of the fuel intake, finally probing its inner walls with a slow rotation of his fingertip, as Shockwave _shut down_ his visor, going still, and the tyrant’s other hand travelled to the small of his back.

  


“Can you imagine why I specifically came after you, Shockwave?”

  


Shockwave knew why, but shook his head. Megatron smirked.

  


“You know how much it pains me to _sparkmerge_ , and unfortunately for Soundwave merging is usually a requirement.”

  


Pulling themselves closer with his other hand, Megatron approached Shockwave’s audials, growling low.

  


“Hook said that I should avoid _sparkmerging_ with you, but he said nothing against a good, old, hard frag, and you and I know that you like it _rough._ ”

  


Shockwave, currently focused on the non-damaged sensors in his fuel intake, revelling in the quasi-painful slide and twist his lord was providing, and glad to know he wouldn’t have to sparkmerge, nodded, as Megatron snorted.

  


“That always does the trick: if only I could get you to trash and convulse and scream in overload.”

  


Shockwave’s visor came back to life.

  


“I may create subroutines for that specific request, my Lord.”

  


Shockwave droned through the mask’s vocaliser, already starting to compile a program in his systems, the instant a loud _slap_ on his aft brought him back to reality, both his arrays instantly pinging to life and beginning lubrication, heat rising.

  


“That was a rhetorical wish.”

  


Shockwave nodded, charge building, focusing on the feeling of the heavy, black hand removing his paddles one by one and throwing them on the ground, Megatron’s thick finger continuously teasing his oesophageal tube.

  


“I could do _you_ the whole solar cycle. There is something _special_ in seeing you like this. Reduced to _nodding._ ”

 

Shockwave nodded further, unwilling to speak, getting suddenly mechandled back against the berth, failing to notice the instant his last paddle was taken out, Megatron’s grey abdominal plates fitting between his widespread thighs, sliding up slowly until his black pelvis met his own.

  


“You have no idea on how much I enjoy your _true_ reactions.”

  


Shockwave nodded, in automatic, his _lord_ sliding up and down over his overheated arrays, finally double-locking the autobot one out of reach and letting his original purple one come free, thick beads of lubricant pouring from between the purple folds, interface cable slotted and inactive in jack.

  


Megatron stared, remembering how many times he _tried_ coaxing it out, to no avail: Primus-damned Empurata!

  


“My _Lord_ , could I respectfully request that you just start poun….”

  


Getting interrupted in his _visual appreciation_ , Megatron growled.

  


“By the Unmaker, Shockwave, can you shut _up_.”

  


Megatron smirked, emphasising the last word by immediately filling the port with both his right hand’s index and middle finger, rotating them inside and crooking them up, this time a small gush of pinkish fluid coming out, Shockwave’s visor dimming minutely, voicebox shutting immediately.

  


“You know what’s your _problem_ , Shockwave? You always _think_ you can _order_ me in the berth like you do to Soundwave.”

  


Shockwave nodded non-committally: he truly didn’t think so, but it was no use arguing with Lord Megatron in this matter, especially not when _his lord_ was actually trying hard to please.

  


“I will _fill_ you up whenever I wish, not when you respectfully _request_. You haven’t given me enough _real_ input yet.”

  


Shockwave was about to drone, stopping himself: call him _basic_ , but what he really craved was the crude, nearly painful _sliding_ in and out, one of the few things he could honestly still feel in his damaged array and his dulled sensory net due to the damage of the spark-to-body connection because of Shadowplay.

  


What his _lord_ called input, he called as _useless foreplay_.

  


As such, even having been ordered not to, visor offline, he disobeyed and had to call upon automated subroutines and made sure to squirm just lightly enough at each crook of fingers, even calculatedly flaring minutely his EM-field, hoping his Lord would be convinced of _true_ reactions he couldn’t have, and just start the really _good_ part soon.

  


The instant he felt emptiness followed by the heavy weight of a full warframe over himself, and a _thick_ , warm, cylindrical, _dripping_ rigid structure painstakingly slowly filling his now stupidly lubricated folds, he let go his first genuine _shudder_ , earning himself a satisfied growl upon his audials, holding himself not to speak out of turn and just start droning, as his Lord suddenly let go of his own self-control and begun to mechanically pound.

  


Charge building exponentially now, about to turn _off_ his upper processors, his bliss was interrupted by the sound of a comm line coming to life.

  


* * *

 

  


Comm line on his personal quarters coming to life, ringing, Megatron, focus suddenly removed from the _happy place_ inside Shockwave’s _port_ he was currently into, growled: who could be the _jerk_ that dared interrupt him on his _personal_ frequency at a moment like this?

  


If Starscream had dared to call him now…

  


He turned _on_ the sound only, sending his voice but not his face.

  


“Megatron speaking. It would better be _important_.”

  


The screen's image flickered to life, depicting his interlocutor.

  


Blinking twice, he contemplated the immutable faceplates of his purple guardian left on Cybertron, or better, his empty shell, getting a sinking feeling in his own spark as he stared for longer than he should at what he now knew was a soulless husk.

  


“ _Lord Megatron._ _I can’t see you._ _Am I interrupting?”_

  


Megatron growled, giving him an unspoken order to _report_ , the guttural echo reverberating the room. Mighty Shockwave, on screen, being unable to see his face, just flinched.

  


“ _I’m here to report an intruder in the Tower._ _”_

  


“And I expect you to properly arrest whoever it is and to deal with him accordingly like the good _drone_ you are!!!”

  


Mighty Shockwave nodded, happy for clear instructions that do not make him open up the spacebridge and glitch in logical conflict. Megatron, a headache brewing, spat.

  


“Now don’t comm again unless what you have to say is really _important!_ ”

  


As the feed was suddenly cut, Megatron finally stared _down_ at the real Shockwave, interface arrays connected and _pinging_ , as the scientist donned a logical excuse, both hands holding up to _his lord_ ’s chestplate and keeping their faces at close touching distance.

  


“I had only a few hours to compile and run the drone program, My Liege. I apologise for the drone's ineptitude.”

  


Megatron then suddenly pulled out and _disconnected_ himself from Shockwave, finally pushing him to the ground and practically jumping out of the berth, interface cable slotting into jack with difficulty, panel locking with a loud click, finally pacing in a circle around the room, EM-field wide and menacing.

  


For 30 full seconds Shockwave stalled his processors, standing immobile with his purple interface panel open and folds dripping, finally closing it and slowly standing up from the floor, silently hoping his Lord wouldn't send him to take his drone's place and thus stay _away_ on Cybertron for good.

  


It would mean his self-imposed mission resulted in complete failure, logically wasting all his efforts during the last four million years.

  


At Megatron’s unnerving _silence_ , Shockwave walked closer.

  


“My Lord?”

  


Megatron stopped pacing then, clenching his fists and staring straight at Shockwave's visor, both standing up in the middle of the room.

  


Shockwave's sparkless drone _phoning_ from Cybertron only _soured_ what was supposed to be a rough, physical, deep and intense _frag_ with his mate: the scientist, medically barred from merging, was a perfect choice to what Megatron craved this time.

  


Leave it to Shockwave to be the only mech capable of interface-blocking his own self from a separate drone shell, millions of light-years away.

  


Contemplating his rarely hesitant mate, Megatron's mind filled with the plethora of Shockwave's mistakes, from him leaving Cybertron against orders, to wrecking the Nemesis into Earth by being a terrible shoot, to finally arranging for the damn _decepticon matrix_ to exist and be housed into his own chestplates, barring him from sparkmerge, to the _medic_ being his slave and sharing quarters with him.

  


Squinting as the green monster of jealousness entered his spark, Megatron growled: he didn’t particularly appreciate sparkmerging due to the pain in his slave-damaged sparkchamber, but Primus knew the only thing preventing him of ordering Shockwave to just _merge_ with him right now (and thus seeing his true intentions towards the autobot medic!) was the dreaded _decepticon matrix._

  


Megatron then furiously and repeatedly poked his mate’s chestplates, Shockwave stumbling backwards.

  


“I don't care how, Shockwave! This decepticon matrix thing was a bad idea! This has to go, even if I have to rip it from you myself!!!”

  


Shockwave asked for apologies in a half hunched position, promising to make it right, as Megatron raised a hand, ready to backhand him.

  


Offlining his visor, Shockwave braced himself for it. It was only logical. He deserved punishment for his failures afterall.

  


After almost a minute of stillness and silence and not a single beating, he turned the visor back on, staring at his Lord, back turned to him.

  


“...My Lord?”

  


Hands clasped on his back, absolutely _not_ staring at Shockwave, Megatron walked to the far side of the room.

  


“Just leave my sight, Shockwave. Go. Until you _solved_ this problem you created, I don't even want to _remember_ your _touch._ ”


	25. The Touch!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Combaticons!

“You've got the TOUCH! You've got the POWAAAA!!!!”

  


Optimus winced and paused his refuelling at the Rec Room, as Technotor pranced around the tables, lights flickering on all directions, music booming, leading a conga line behind himself and _winking_ at the Prime: Jazz, the second in line, actually blew a kiss and waved goodbye, as a few unknown autobots followed suite.

  


Blinking twice, shaking his head and rushing back to his own office, Optimus had been pleasantly met with a complete absence of autobots pledging him _stuff_ at the door, quickly hiding himself in.

  


As provider of diversion, Technotor was most definitely proving to be _good._

  


As Matrix-generated _offspring_ , he was a thundering disappointment.

  


Sitting at his desk and shaking his head, he actually smiled under the battlemask for having left the _insanity_ behind.

  


* * *

  


Behind the palm trees, at the tropical sun of the Solomon Isles, Guadalcanal, Swindle lounged on the beach, the moment his comm whirred into life.

  


Answering it, he blinked his purple optics, smirking to himself.

  


“Swindle's Independent Entrepreneur Business Expenditure at your disposal, I have just precisely what you never knew you wanted or needed in first place!”

  


He nodded at nowhere, the wind blowing on the palm trees.

  


“Now, for my favourite _costumer_ , especially for _you_ , I'll be making a discount, now what do you think of that?”

  


Waves washed his feet on the beach, as he laid on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the sky, wondering where Blast-Off could be now.

  


“Don't trust Swindle? How can you not! Swindle's Independent Entrepreneur Business Expenditure is reliable and _discreet_! With Swindle you never have to worry! I'm even taking extra _mods_ for you to see, who knows what else might pick your fancy. I'm always in for a _good_ deal.”

  


Comming off, he couldn't help rubbing his servos together, seagulls cawing on the background.

  


He loved deals with autobots. The energon was pure and _volcanic_ , the Shanix valid and current, the earthly Petrodollars overflowing, and they often had no real notion of true value attached to the product, cutting sweet deals for Swindle and his space-faring partner Blast-Off.

  


Hopefully they wouldn't even need to raid anywhere this time: he already had everything the autobot requested, which obviously would only bring the price up.

  


Managing to pick his partner's comm frequency, he warned Blast-Off of the impending business.

  


Blast-Off, lounging on the upper atmosphere, in orbit, still, revved his engines alight.

  


* * *

  


Engines revved still, turning ON his room's lights, Shockwave, carrying his four paddles in hands, static humming through his frame, stepped in to find it empty.

  


Presuming Ratchet had left with Microtron on tow to either the constructicon bay or the Lab, he logically concluded everything was under control and decided to take time to _ponder_ on the problem at hand, or better, at his chest.

  


His Lord had been severely displeased, and the only way to return to his good graces was having the Decepticon Matrix removed, and preferably installed as an independent device, soon.

  


Resting the four paddles against the wall and retracting the rotor inside, he sat at the middle of the main berth, finally lying on his back, buzzing with residual charge.

  


There had never been registry of a single Matrix-bearer giving the Matrix up, so he had no information if it was even possible to have it removed before a mech's deactivation: all the Primes so far had first turned _grey_ , then had the pulsing, living, _surviving_ Matrix removed and transferred afterwards.

  


Being semi-religious _symbols_ , the deactivated Primes had never had their shells defiled and thus never properly _studied_ ; as such Shockwave also had no info on the state of their frames _after_ extraction of the Matrix.

  


He remembered well how the Matrix latched itself, side struts fused to Optimus Prime's frame, and on how his spark frequency fluctuated dangerously the only time he had been close enough to touch, the fateful day he stole the _half_ of the Matrix and housed it within the infamous _paperweight._

  


Would his regenerated half, his Decepticon Matrix, take well to being _removed_?

  


For one, it did appear to have somewhat of a will of its own, or at least an absurd fondness for newsparks, to the point Shockwave himself was _apprehensive_ of sparkmerging again.

  


Afterall, he had really no control over it, like the Primes do. He couldn't order it to give a spark to any shell (Primus knows he _tried_ ), he couldn't access any kind of wisdom or knowledge from within, he couldn't hack it, and it continuously _fed_ on his own systems, taxing his processors by 48 to 67% more than he should be running, consuming energon enough to power four to five mechs a day.

  


Although his Lord seemed _frustrated_ for not being able to sparkmerge, and didn't even know half the difficulties Shockwave had living with his _cursed_ knock-off, Lord Megatron was _right_ in concluding the whole experiment was a terrible idea.

  


Shockwave had the inkling he shouldn't just _rip_ the Decepticon Matrix out; unfortunately, he would indeed need the _medic_ to intervene right beside his own _spark_ , something he had only ever trusted around his bondmates and his own sparkless drone back on Cybertron.

  


Despite bound by the slave coding, which just downright impedes the medic of even thinking of attempting to harm his _master_ , Shockwave had good reason to be wary: logically, Ratchet was probably in the least _disappointed_ and in the worst, downright _pissed_ at his current situation, and a mech as resourceful and intelligent as his slave was, would be able to find a suitable _loophole_ to work around as his very sparkchamber laid exposed and helpless under his servos.

  


Shockwave, willing his systems to rev down from his failed _session_ with his Lord, frame heavy with unspent charge, offlined his optics, for once wary of his future, not knowing how to proceed.

  


* * *

 

  


“Let us proceed. Look at these wares!”

  


Swindle smiled his best salesmech smile, as Perceptor inspected the _merchandis_ e: in the distance, we see Wheeljack eavesdropping, barely hiding behind a boulder.

  


Blast-Off, lounging with his arms folded, shook his head: he couldn't care less about who Swindle bartered with, as long as he kept an optic to be sure he would _never_ ever sell his team mates again.

  


Particularly interested on a couple of special _mods_ , Perceptor actually caught a sniper rifle and aimed right at the direction where Wheeljack was, shooting.

  


“Oh, no wasting, if you waste it, you pay it!”

  


Swindle immediately stopped protesting as Perceptor gave him a creepy smile, resting the sniper rifle on his shoulder and actually _cackling_ as Wheeljack came from his failed hiding spot sporting a minute, precise hole in the middle of his forehead, screeching.

  


“Frag it Percy, didn't you see me??”

  


Adjusting his monocle on his right optic, Perceptor tilted his head.

  


“I have seen you with precision, my friend, and I knew you were no threat. That is why you have a minute shot through your forehead, not a minute hole through your sparkchamber.”

  


A minute hole through _my_ sparkchamber?

  


A minute _hole_ through my _sparkchamber_?

  


_Realisation_ dawning on him, Wheeljack blinked his side-face lights twice and widened his optics, as Perceptor caught and threw each of the mods right into the hands of his frightened and scared co-scientist.

  


“I'm _taking_ your full stock.”

  


Perceptor then turned and took in hands a second twin sniper rifle, manoeuvring both in hands with amazing expertise, finally resting them, each on one shoulder.

  


Swindle, whose optics briefly turned into two Shanix signs, quickly coming back to their normal shape, extended then his hand to the microscope, intent in sealing the deal...

  


...the moment two twin red dots shone, at the same time, at where both Blast-Off's and Swindle's spark chambers were located in their chestplates, buzzing with charge, Perceptor's smile opening wide.

  


* * *

 

  


Single optic cycling wide, Microtron walked around the undersea base, staring up at the purple walls in the dim lit halls, occasionally stopping to contemplate a window with a giant octopus latched on, or a whale singing by.

  


The undersea base was huge, he didn’t know where carrier was, and he was _hungry._

  


_He was very hungry_ , and could hardly contain himself inside the constructicon's bay once Ratchet released him on the ground.

  


Mind stubbornly seeking for what would appease his hunger, Microtron swung his slim arms as he walked, blocky feet thumping on the ground and echoing on the hull, four datacables flailing out from his back, feelers occasionally touching the walls, the panels and the ground, feelers wide, gathering info from his darkened surroundings: he blinked his optic slowly, turning around and heading into the lower levels of the Nemesis.

  


Pedes splashing in a slimy layer of oil and brine, reflexively moving the four datacables he had out, he held against the seams at the wall panels, avoiding to fall onto the edge of crates, unaware he could be blind and lonely if he did.

  


Never having been under this current degree of exposure to danger while away from _family_ , he kept advancing down, the four outstretched tentacles holding onto the walls and serving as guide, as his sensors followed the unmistakable scent of stale, gelled processed energon going stronger.

  


Turning his cracked screen-chestplate ON into a white background screen, he managed to illuminate partially his surroundings and cycled his objective wide, outlining the shapes of...

  


Carrier?

  


_Carrier!!_

  


Microtron ran at the visored, faceplated shadow with four paddles on its back that was moving at the end of the corridor, happy to see Carrier was there, right where the scent of processed energon was stronger.

  


Anticipating a hearty meal, Microtron opened both arms wide, finally jumping and latching himself like an octopus through datacables and arms and legs at the mech’s own chestplate, enveloping his waist with his legs, nuzzling his camera head at the crook of his neck, whispering.

  


“What is it you have there for me? I’m hungry!”

  


Heat burning from his frame as his rotors revved loudly and his fans turned on, the _red_ visored faceplate turned to the mechling in the dark, a mad unrecognisable _cackle_ echoing the halls, and Microtron froze in place, sprawled against the heliformer.

  


“What a _coincidence_.”

  


It wasn’t carrier’s voice.

  


“I’m _hungry_ too _._ ” the rough voice whispered right on his audials. “And I do have _something_ for you.”

  


Before Microtron could detach and run, Vortex vice gripped his waist, immediately trapping him with his interrogator stasis cuffs, nullifying the movements on his limbs and datacables, disabling his comm links and finally walking away into a secluded room dragging him by the tentacled appendages, as the mechling silently bellowed for help.


	26. Save me

“Ahem. Do you need _help_?”

  


Scrapper folded arms, positioning himself right between Starscream and Scavenger, who was recoiling from the screamer. The decepticon air commander pointed at the scout, bellowing.

  


“This... this stupid idiotic _glitch_ is saying you all are too busy with some imbecile project for Shockwave and can't help _me_ build a submarine!”

  


“Commander Shockwave's project takes precedence.”

  


“But...but I'm _second_ in command!”

  


Scrapper merely smirked and patted once Starscream's shoulder. Scavenger nodded, complementing.

  


“He asked nice too. His kid will be so happy with all the friends!”

  


Starscream blinked repeatedly. _What???_

  


“I can't believe you are designing that _scraplet_ a batch of _friends_! This is a waste of resources! Shockwave has lost his mind! I will tell Megatron at once! I...”

  


At that, Scrapper stood to attention, as did Scavenger, saluting. Starscream got deadly mute, waiting for Megatron's voice of Doom.

  


“BZZzZZZzzzZ???”

  


Starscream leered. What was it with Soundwave and _beastformer_ cassette modes for his own offspring? The thing can’t even talk! Isn’t it enough that his creations are _small_?

  


“Go get yourself a hive, insect! How dare you actually _live_ in such a shell! I’d never be caught up _dead_ inhabiting _you_ , even by accident! You’re a disgrace to the decepticons! You..!”

  


At that Soundwave’s voice of doom echoed from the cassette.

  


“ _Starscream: Soundwave watching you.”_

  


Sputtering, Starscream yelled at the bee.

  


“Oh, yeah??? Very mechly of you,  _hiding_ behind your wasp!"

 

 

_“Menace: bee, not wasp."_

 

 

"Wasp, bee, what's the _difference?_  You're a coward the same! Why won’t you come by yourself and be a real mech for once?”

 

 

_"Soundwave: superior. Challenge: acknowledged.”_

  


Looping another eight in the air, the buzzing Menace stopped right before the air commander, Soundwave’s _laughter_ dying from her systems.

  


Starscream, realising too late he had committed a _mistake_ , glared at the smirking Scrapper and just bolted through the corridors.

  


* * *

 

  


Bolting through the corridors, Ratchet, searching for Microtron, abandoned discretion and now wailed his sirens in ambulance mode as decepticons right and left gave way, actually using his _aggressive_ interface drive to a good cause for once.

  


He had already searched the Rec Room and the Lab, had tried pinging the mechling’s comm with no reply, and currently hoped to locate him lurking with his Ipad sitting on some corner, reading.

  


Certainly no sane decepticon would attempt to harm Megatron’s creation.

  


Would they?

  


Ratchet stalled for a second. What a stupid idea.

  


They are decepticons. Of course they would, given opportunity.

  


Icy fear creeping up his plates, interface cable pinging continuously to be let out and just _angering_ him further, fuelling his drive to find the _kid_ , Ratchet asked himself where and how such an _opportunity_ might take place. He wasn’t a connoisseur of the Nemesis, but he suspected the deeper and darker, the worse.

  


Slave coding kicking in full force, pre-transfluid actually starting to drip from the forcibly slotted cable behind his locked panel and EM-field flaring aggressively, obliged to seek his charge, knowing he had failed and needed to make it right and aware of the potential danger, he braced himself, rolling down the corridors, anger and determination in his voice.

  


“I’m going to find you and retrieve you, you little _elusive glitch_!”

  


 

* * *

 

  
_Elusive glitch!!!_

  


Elita-1, deeply rested, awoke inside her amazingly luxurious oil bath.

  


After having been thoroughly _rejected_ by her Prime, she needed to undergo such bath to relax: who Optimus thought he was to goad her like this?

  


Of course: he was the Prime. As leader, he could truly do _anything_ , and in a way, she deserved it after a whole year running away from any and all his attempts to sparkmerge.

  


Finally coming to peace with her _punishment_ , she now pondered about the events of the Matrix crafting the Prime his own _scraplet_ and heir, without needing to get her sparked, finally agreeing she had been blessed indeed and shouldn’t show so much hostility.

  


Maybe it was time for apologies from both sides. They were bonded, afterall, and had to make it work, and it should begin by the Prime stopping to _refuse_ her.

  


Elita-1 puffed her chest and stood up, intent in getting _satisfaction_ , recalling Optimus’ _scraplet_.

  


 

* * *

 

 

“So, _scraplet._ ”

  


Vortex’s voice echoed in his dark room, only the light coming from his own red visor illuminating the area, Microtron’s optic stubbornly kept offline as the mechling remained strapped to his interrogation slab.

  


“It wasn’t wise of you draping yourself like _shareware_ over my frame.”

  


He ran a claw through the mechling’s chestplate screen, scratching the already broken glass, quickly tapping the visibly damaged abdominal and ventral plates, revealing plain plating without a single connector or port underneath.

  


“Do you have any idea on why I’m keeping you here?”

  


Microtron slowly shook his head. His voice synthesiser was too ladded with static to work.

  


The stupidly strong scent of stale processed energon making his tanks growl in hunger wasn’t doing anything to help him either.

  


“Your _carrier_ has something I want. I want to improve my hacking cable, and the _cortical psychic patch_ would be just perfect.”

  


Vortex’ engines revved loudly and deeply as he traced Microtron’s inner plates with his claws, drawing streaks of energon, his single optic shining crimson as his own fluid pooled besides the slab.

  


“I intend to exchange you for his tech. Obviously, I might enjoy you a bit before returning you back.”

  


He loomed before the giant optic, closely inspecting the headphone-like audials at each side of his head, nuzzling his battlemask against them and growling.

  


“Any idea on what I am talking about? Oh, I forget. Juvenile frame. No interface panels.”

  


Microtron cycled his optic wide, searching his databanks for the expression, not finding anything related to interface panels, having already an inkling, however, that it was something he would _not_ like to do, as Vortex revved his rotors loudly.

  


“Your ignorance, scraplet, is _invigorating_. I’m afraid I’ll need to _improvise_.”

  


The claw travelled to the side of his waist, digging into the seams and ripping the lateral plate off, revealing the dark grey medical port and the emergency fuel dump lid, clawtips lightly grazing both.

  


“Two different entrances, but neither _fit_ my hacking cable in _._ ” he threatened inserting the tip of a claw, closely inspecting for Microtron’s reactions “Nothing I cannot solve with stretching. Or rupturing. Which will it be?”

  


Pain flaring on his systems from his broken abdominal and ventral plates and now his medical access panel, in mix of fear and hunger, Microtron’s mind screamed through his _carrier_ -bond, desperately trying to get to Shockwave.

 

 

* * *

 

  


Shockwave woke up in a jolt, a choking tug in his spark as a lightning arch went through his plating seams.

  


He stalled, recovering from the pain: he wasn’t supposed to get _feelings_ through any of his bonds.

  


Logically, Shockwave had properly _blocked_ the transmission of feelings both ways in both his sparkbond to Soundwave and Lord Megatron: the tapedeck’s echo-bond to his own creations was _distracting_ , and Lord Megatron’s fluctuating moods were not conductive to the supervision of scientific experiments.

  


So _who_ could be sending him such distress and pain?

  


* * *

 

  


In distress, arousal, and now _pain_ , Ratchet, currently in root mode, shook his head, having just been run over while still on ambulance mode by Starscream, apparently escaping from an army of scraplets.

  


Or better, cassettes.

  


Right after getting hit on by the screamer screeching a creative collection of profanities against Soundwave, the medic was trampled by Frenzy, Rumble and Ravage, closely followed by the other flight-framed symbionts.

  


Standing up slowly, having reverted to root mode by now, Ratchet turned on his heels to keep his search for Microtron, getting instantly captured by his chestplate and brought down to optic level.

  


“Chief Medical Officer.”

  


_Shockwave_.

  


Interfacing subroutines skyrocketing at Shockwave’s touch, Ratchet made a herculean effort not to _beg_ for the synch or a frag, as his master let him go, the heliformer’s EM-field tightly contained against his plating, occasionally irradiating a wave of _determination_ , ordering Ratchet to follow him, leaving further darker and down the hull.

  


* * *

  


 

Hull darkening, Astrotrain soared at the stratosphere, ceramic shield plating cooling down as he left the light of a rising day to the dark side of the planetary orbit, currently responsible for the dull orbital surveillance, more than glad for having to do it.

  


Afterall, he only got _hit on_ by Skyfire and had the interface session of a lifetime precisely because he had been forced to remain in orbit for so long.

  


Sighing at the memory, he smirked: according to the autobot shuttle, he was way better than Blast-Off.

  


* * *

 

  


Blast-Off glumly stared at the wall, stasis-cuffed behind energon bars at the autobot brig.

  


“I said I'm sorry already! The business seemed _legit_!”

  


Swindle, on a separate cell, pleaded for mercy, already knowing he would be doomed the moment they managed to get out of there.

  


He should have imagined there was something _wrong_ when who asked for sniper technology and spy mods was no one less than _Perceptor._

  


* * *

 

  


Perceptor carried himself tall and high, a sniper rifle over each shoulder, Wheeljack following behind worriedly holding a truckload of illegitimate mods.

  


It had been cool _and_ scary enough to see the microscope – no, the _sniper_ – subdue with a creepy smile and two well-aimed rifles, the two combaticons: whatever damage he incurred after their last explosion in the lab had been enough to scramble his logic circuits.

  


Not that they hadn't acquired interesting weapons out of the decepticons: Wheeljack was damn sure _Sniperceptor_ wouldn't mind setting aside the two katanas for him.

  


At least katanas were something he knew he would not explode.

  


Wheeljack followed Perceptor then, passing by a huge conga line on his way to the Lab, blinking slowly twice.

  


* * *

 

  


Blinking slowly twice, Starscream shook his head: he had just been mobbed by the cassettes, who dutifully were _sitting_ all over his frame, cawing, chirping, hissing, buzzing and cackling.

  


“You fragging midgets, release me! I’m the Air Commander and I demand obedience!!!”

  


“Cassettes: not loyal to Starscream.”

  


_Great, the tapeglitch_.

  


Soundwave, nodding appreciatively at his creations, knelt down, meeting Starscream face to battlemask.

  


“Starscream: never learns. Soundwave: optics and audials of the Nemesis. Query: real reason for wanting a _submarine_ built.”

  


Getting him by his neck as the cassettes left his frame spreading around in a circle, Soundwave lifted the screamer, optic to visor, waiting.

  


* * *

  


 

“I’m waiting.”

  


Optimus banged his head against the desk.

  


Elita-1 had just stormed in, scattered all the datapads with a sweep of her arms on the Prime’s desk, and actually stood up on it, tapping her foot down.

  


“Right, Elita. You win. I forgive you and you forgive me. Now. Please leave me alone?”

  


She just tapped her foot, slowly shaking her head, arms folded, looking down at Optimus with a _determined_ gleam in her optics, as Optimus shuddered, flinching.

  


* * *

 

  


Flinching, Ratchet blinked his optics meekly.

  


_What the frag had just happened???_

  


Contemplating what looked like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust with the mental clarity of a _monk_ , Ratchet willed himself silent and immobile, staring at a partially dismembered dark and purple heliformer hanging from the ceiling by his bound feet, upside down, outer plating haphazardly snatched off spread on a radius, energon dripping from some of the wounds, forming a puddle on the ground.

  


On his arms, Ratchet finally understood why he wasn’t desperately thinking in fragging Shockwave: he found himself holding Microtron, under medical stasis, connected to his own medical cable, and he was pretty sure he had no idea on how the mechling appeared there, also not remembering when he connected himself to the _kid_.

  


Circling around the hung up, mutilated, defiled Vortex, Shockwave, both hands having each finger turned into one single scalpel blade, all ten dripping with energon, coldly stared through his blue visor at the interrogator.

  


“Combaticon Interrogator Vortex.” He stopped before his comrade-in-alt-mode, the combaticon’s head having a great view of his protruding chestplate “Estate your reasons for the assault on my creation.”

  


Raising a hand towards the other’s battlemask, Shockwave transformed his hand into a welder, cutting the mask off, revealing the crude circuitry underneath, aglow with biolights: Vortex truly lacked a face, having a cold-constructed body.

  


Scraping the still hot welder into a wire, he earned himself a static blurt followed by a cackle.

  


“I repeat, estate your reasons.”

  


Another burnt wire, and another cackle, followed by a powerful engine rev and a lustful gleam on the red visor.

  


“I meant to exchange your scraplet for the blueprints of your _hacking_ cable, but I wouldn’t have _minded_ to frag the _cute_ little thing before.”

  


Shockwave stared immobile and reactionless, as Ratchet growled: the only thing currently preventing him of striking the combaticon being the fact he was keeping Microtron under medical stasis.

  


“Commander Shockwave. This is how you must address me at each sentence. Do you copy?”

  


“Of _course_ , Commander Shockwave.”

  


“Very well.” Shockwave nodded, welding two wires from his face together, generating a spark of charge and raising black smoke as Vortex hissed, shivering and clicking his cooling fans on.

  


Ratchet, processors thinking clearly with the newspark in arms, gaped, getting to the realisation that yes, Vortex was aroused by the torture, and that _yes_ , Shockwave apparently was either completely oblivious or completely _conscious_ of what he was doing.

  


Sudden indignation filled his faceplates: how could Shockwave even remotely indulge the masochistic tendencies of the fragging aggressor of his own newspark???

  


Staring in utter disbelief, he observed Shockwave painfully dig his left hand with all fingertips turned into scalpels into the other’s face wiring, ripping some of them slowly, coiling them around his fingers, the other hand transformed into a surgical laser and tracing down Vortex’ chestplate, bringing a fresh energon trail down.

  


Vortex _purred_ loudly, actually mewling and snapping open his own interface panel the instant Shockwave _fried_ his inguinal transformation seams, melting the locks away.

  


“I wasn’t aware you were so good with your hands. I yield. You are the best heliformer. No wonder Lord Megatron keeps you around, _Fragwave_.”

  


He had a modded and adorned spike-and-valve system, both dripping wet with lubricants and pre-transfluid. Blue visor darkening minutely, detachedly, Shockwave removed his hand from the mech’s wiring, finally gripping around the semi-pressurised spiked cable and _pulling it out of slot._

  


“You did not call me Commander Shockwave and it is a grave mistake.”

  


He then dug his scalpel fingertips into the spike’s mesh, piercing its underside, fluids reaching his own chestplates and energon dripping, Vortex stiffening alongside the twitching pressurised spike, with a loud _moan_.

  


“You will respect the _hierarchy_.”

  


Shockwave pierced the spike further, as Ratchet winced, unable to stop _staring_ , faceplates heated in a mix of embarrassment, pain and lust, very glad for the mechling’s medical stasis, as Vortex keened, his moaning deepening and openly asking for _more_.

 

 

* * *

  
  


“More! More! MORE!!”

  


Technotor, having managed to hypnotise every single autobot he passed by with the conga line by now, currently _tranced_ at the Rec room of the Ark, jumping up and down with a microphone in hands, his lights and mirrors gleaming and illuminating the whole autobot fleet, their audience for the night.

  


“DJ Blaster, the Voice of Cybertron, especially for your pleasure!!!!”

  


Blaster walked in, his plating shining like new, followed by his four creations, the reds and yellows nearly sparkling: he swayed his shoulders right and left, chin held high, his tall broad chested frame dragging everyone's attention.

  


Waving his arms to the crowd at the mess hall, he called for cheers and applause, taking the microphone from Technotor's hands.

  


“Everybody _trancing_!!! YEAH!”

  


Blaster then positioned himself in front of Teletraan, as Hard Industrial Tarnian Trance bellowed from every speaker and Technotor globe-moded into the ceiling, swirling with sound and lights, the crowd roaring mad in delight.

  


* * *

  


A mad roar of delight echoed through the hull of the Nemesis, followed by the palpable silence of two different footsteps thumping in the halls.

  


Shockwave parted the horrified crowd that came to the darkest corridors of the underbelly of the base, to see what that roar was about: his battlemask and chestplate bore a mix of silvery streaks, energon and a glossy sheen of something slippery and visibly disgusting.

  


No one dared open their mouthplates to ask or comment, however, donning mournful looks as Shockwave unceremoniously discarded, slowly, piece by piece, step by step, parts of what one day had been a full-fledged pierced and adorned interface panel, gelled energon coating in between his fingers, the loud echoes of sullied metal sloshing against dry metal filling the silence of the room.

  


Ratchet, walking behind at a short distance, trying not to slip on the _parts_ , carrying Microtron bridal-style, was the receiver of the glares that were supposed to go to his _master_ : Dirge, feeling particularly bold, asked with a glee in his optics if Shockwave had hung up the stupid fragger on the ceiling with the innards open _that way_.

  


Twitching once his optic ridge, Ratchet recalled the open gash of Vortex’ ventral plates, once his whole interface array was excised, piece by piece, with the scalpels at cauterising temperature to make sure he wouldn’t offline due to lack of energon, and merely nodded, practically rushing after his master.

  


He had no will of further stirring a _carrier_ ’s coldly calculating, detached, logical wrath.

  


 

* * *

 

 

  


Elita-1’s _wrath_ logically didn’t last long once Optimus yielded to her will.

  


She wasn’t stupid: she knew very well she would never be the first choice in Optimus Prime’s spark.

  


Or even in array.

  


She was damned however if she would give up her place as consort of the Prime.

  


Let him dream of getting _spiked_. Elita-1 didn’t care, and apparently _Ratchet_ didn’t anymore either, having defected to the decepticons after that _Strongarm_ _glitch_.

  


How _Strongarm_ managed to change so drastically from an easy going, pleasant, simple, _autobot_ enforcer girl, to a vocoded and masked, hard and cold mockery of a _medic_ , truly a decepticon, Elita-1 couldn’t even fathom.

  


It could only be consequence of the time she had been victim of Shockwave’s Lab.

  


* * *

 

  


At Shockwave’s Lab on Cybertron, Mighty Shockwave tapped his fingers on the comm array, staring blankly at the screen depicting a decepticon symbol and a message saying they were facing _technical difficulties_ and would return soon.

  


The last Lawyercon was standing right beside him, gently patting on his left shoulderplate.

  


“Poor Mighty Shockwave, you proved you are nothing but Megatron’s little _glitch_.”

  


_Afthole_ , thought the drone, removing his shoulder from the reach of the lawyercon, who snickered and adjusted his frilly wig.

  


“If only you would use the Space Bridge to get to your _daddy_ Megatron to go on and _tattle._ ”

  


At that the drone puffed his chestplates, reaching for the controls.


	27. Out of Control

Reaching the controls for life-support, Shockwave puffed his filthy chestplates as the third slab at the Constructicon's bay was inclined into a 45º angle and its lights thrummed into life.

  


Hook frowned, fleeting the occasional disgusted glance to all the mess covering Shockwave up, arms folded, as Ratchet placed Microtron on the slab, transferring the medical stasis from himself to the life-support system and resting a hand at the mechling’s plates, keeping his interfacing protocols down, waiting for Shockwave’s orders.

  


“Chief Medical Officer Hook.” Shockwave walked towards the constructicon, looking up “I am aware this is your _medbay_ , however I shall override your authority and concede my slave free reign for the execution of my creation's repairs.”

  


“I am perfectly _capable_ of repairing your creation, _commander_.”

  


“I acknowledge your abilities and your offer will not be forgotten. Yet, it is not logical to occupy your time and skill when I have an idle set of _coded hands_ under my direct command to tend to my creation.”

  


Shockwave then gestured towards Ratchet, who remained beside the slab ignoring the exchange and started inspecting the damage on the mechling's frame, mind thinking straight and full medical code kicking in. Hook, ex-venting loudly, shook his head, as Shockwave turned to Scavenger.

  


“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. You will fetch whatever is required for the repairs. Do you copy?”

  


Scavenger saluted, practically jumping to Ratchet's side, as Shockwave minutely nodded to Hook.

  


“Very well then.”

  


He turned to leave, rotating his head over his shoulder to face the decepticon CMO.

  


“You do know how to proceed in case a certain interrogator ends up under your hands, am I correct, Chief Medical Officer Hook?”

  


Hook smirked then, nodding.

  


* * *

 

  
Nodding, Soundwave finished listening to Starscream and was now _thinking_.

  


Once more, the flier proved to be _brilliant_ , and the decepticons could indeed make good use of such an abandoned source of ready energy.

  


“Starscream: Soundwave will help.”

  


Starscream, still sat over by cassettes, widened his optics, unbelieving. Why would the _main glitch_ aid him???

  


“And _what_ will be your price? Nothing comes free with you.”

  


Soundwave stared, impassive, Ravage growling towards the screamer.

  


“Starscream: notoriously disloyal. Lord Megatron: always sees Starscream's plans as plots against himself.”

  


With a gesture and a ping, all symbionts walked out of the prone Starscream, who started rising from the ground.

  


“Soundwave: trusted and loyal. Will admit to co-authoring plan with Starscream, proving plan is not a plot. Soundwave's word will give enough _credit_ to Starscream's idea.”

  


The Air Commander looked at the tapedeck, snickering. Obviously, the _tapeglitch_ wanted to reclaim some of the glory for himself.

  


No matter. Everyone knows who the brilliant scientific mind capable of such plans really _is_ : at least now he would prove everyone that he, Starscream, was the most fit to be a leader, once every decepticon was properly fuelled and aware it happened because of _his_ plan.

  


“Very well then, Soundwave. I _graciously_ accept. Partners?”

  


* * *

 

  


“Partner?”

  


Onslaught approached the hung up Vortex, slowly, as Brawl trailed behind, judiciously avoiding the puddles of goo, energon and pieces of what he _recognised_ as part of the adorned and pierced inner panels of...

  


_Primus_.

  


He stared, mute, at the open gash. Onslaught exchanged a glance with him.

  


“You do recognise this _style_ , don't you?”

  


Brawl didn't need to nod, irked, as Onslaught approached and lowered himself to the level of Vortex's mangled face.

  


“We know you enjoy pain, but this is ridiculous! Idiot, what were you _thinking_???”

  


Vortex, visor glassy in near stasis lock, weakly _giggled_.

  


“...t'was worth it. It's still _tingling_.”

  


Brawl shuddered. Onslaught sighed, comming Swindle.

  


* * *

 

  


“Swindle's Independent Entrepreneur Business Expenditure at your disposal, I have just precisely what you never knew you wanted or needed in first place!”

  


He answered with his jingle, cheerful: business couldn't stop just because of something minor like being currently under arrest at the autobot brig. Listening to the speaker, Swindle looked around his cage, glad that Blast-Off was recharging.

  


“Sure do! I have the fanciest _mods_. Wanting an _upgrade_?”

  


Swindle flinched at the sudden expletive blasting from his comm.

  


“Not that you _need_ one, boss, but....”

  


_Oh._

  


Expression changing suddenly, he cringed.

  


“Of course, boss, once Blast-Off and I are out of here...”

  


* * *

 

  


“Out of here!! OUT!”

  


Red Alert waved his arms, head finials glitching, as he parted the _trancing_ crowd at the autobot Rec Room, attempting to bring things back to a semblance of normalcy.

  


“Have you all no sense? This is a security _hazard_!!!”

  


The roaring crowd ignored Red Alert wholly, pure undiluted electronic _music_ blasting through the speakers, Blaster mixing it on the background.

  


* * *

 

  


Mixing on the background, Mixmaster shook his drum as Scavenger poured in liquid purified cybertronium alongside the ground pounded metals that were supposed to go to the little computer friends Commander Shockwave had planned for his _kid_.

  


He had to sacrifice all the small dronelings for the task, and currently Bonecrusher was grounding them into metallic powder: the medic Ratchet requested material enough not only for the repairs, but also for an armour upgrade.

  


Running through Microtron’s code, Ratchet located the medical log referring to the memory sequence of the event, reviewing it in detail: Vortex had managed only outer physical damage, running out of time to pry further the instant Shockwave smothered him.

  


The whole Cybertron of course knew of Shockwave’s cold psychopathy and of his detachedly cruel tendencies, but to actually _see_ it happening was frightening and unsurprisingly _arousing._

  


He was still amazed at how fast and passionless Shockwave moved, a true tank wreaking merciless destruction and inflicting with medical instruments damage he had rarely seen during the War, much less had been around to repair.

  


He doubted Vortex would ever function properly again, even if he got a new interface array and medical hands willing to repair this non-vital function back to him. Shockwave had welded wiring together, short-circuiting most of the connections and literally frying the neural net, in a way only a _connoisseur_ would know how to.

  


Even though his medical code screamed for him to impede Shockwave back then, as he already held the mechling in arms, his consciousness thought it was very well-deserved and _good_. Vortex took advantage of a defenceless newspark who had no idea of what was being demanded of him.

  


Once finished removing the outer damaged plating, Ratchet extended a hand for Scavenger, who fished a thick foil of dark grey metal from Mixmaster's drum.

  


Starting to mould the foil around the mechling's midsection, mechanically, Ratchet's mind brought up the blueprints of Microtron's frame, the inklings of a full body re-plating beginning to steam.

  


  


Walls beginning to steam, we take full body view of Shockwave staring at the reflexive surface in his washracks, the solvent spray falling on his rotors and running through his chestplate, frontal and ventral arrays, and down his legs, taking the filth and the muck away.

  


It was only logical to have punished the assaulter like he did, and he felt no pride or remorse on having done the _excision_.

  


He is sure the other decepticons are thinking he mutilated Vortex so and left him alive for him to suffer living without the array, for revenge.

  


Revenge had been merely an unintended yet fitting consequence: he only made sure Vortex would never be able to assault his creation, by logically removing the offending array, since he wasn't aiming to offline the interrogator.

  


There was no logical advantage in _breaking_ Bruticus: if he did deactivate the rotary, he would have to modify and fit another decepticon into his role.

  


Staring at his reflection and dutifully cleaning his mask and visor from the streaks of pinkish silver, Shockwave's memories briefly wandered to a time where he had a forged face.

  


Shockwave never forgot the day he lost his face, his hands and the simplest pleasure of fuelling with dignity.

  


Once, he would have gone to the depths of Cybertron and out in the Universe only to recover his face and his hands, out of anger and pride for the punishment they inflicted him, just because he believed a mech should dictate his own destiny, not the function he was born to do.

  


Once, he _cared_ enough.

  


Hands running down his own neck, Shockwave remembered.

  


He remembered the useless rage, of hitting the implanted _unfeeling_ claws that replaced his hands against the bars of his cell at the Institute until they became stumps, of screaming muted cries from his disconnected vocaliser as his current single optic shone in full throttled anger, the exhaustion in his defiled frame, now painted rich, deep, glossy, _royal_ purple, all traces of his previous multi-coloured schemes gone, the phantom _pain_ searing on his sensory net.

  


He recalled the mutilation of his interface array, transfluid tank excised, interface cable disconnected from the neural net and now completely useless, and barely no charge sensors left in the port, mostly those associated directly to pressure and pain, leaving him unable to respond to light and delicate touch.

  


He remembered having been further punished then, with a shimmering, filled-to-the-brim energon cube on full display in his cell, as he stared at it, unrestrained, only his stumps and his hunger for company, for ten solar cycles.

  


He would never destroy his _appendages_ ever again, he pondered, slowly trailing both hands down his chestplate and taking the _glued_ dirt out of his clear glass, a minute electric arc cracking from one lateral seam.

  


Once they gave him his second set of claws, still denying him his voice, he was ravenous the moment his rations had been delivered, but wasted them trying to no avail to reach the feeding intake and dumping the fuel in.

  


He suffered then in silence, emergency fuel tank locked away and unattainable for now, tanks rumbling and stuttering, on fumes, energon spilt on the floor, at licking range, if he still had a tongue _and_ the subroutines on how to use it (his whole facial subroutines had been deleted altogether with the removal of his face), or fingers to scrape the energon out and into the leftover intake.

  


Bringing his right hand up, he traced the lid of his fuel intake with the thumb, slight heat coming up from his core: weren't for the modified straw with a flexible ending, a very thoughtful gift from his Lord that partially restored his _dignity_ , he would need to always resort to the emergency fuel dump.

  


He remembered the humiliation of imploring for aid to refuel, wordlessly, with gestures of submission. He remembered the warden's pleased faceplates as he got into the cell with the ration and embraced his purple frame from behind, draping himself all over his back and aft, tilting his neck and slowly fuelling him through the intake, the other hand popping open his panels and fingertips digging into his port.

  


As soon as some fuel entered his systems, single optic glimmering in the dim light, at the same time mad and relieved for being no longer able to register that kind of touch as potentially arousing, feeling nothing but the now slightly painful, dry stretching of the port lining, Shockwave turned on his axis and gripped the abusive warden, piercing his feet with the claws and swinging him by his legs into the bars in full berserk mode, managing to escape the cell, only to be recaptured on the adjacent corridor and beaten senseless for insubordination.

  


He recalled without anger or pride how they needed four wardens to subdue and recapture him, and on how they finally managed through brute force to serial-rape his damaged port, until fresh energon came out through the barely feeling walls.

  


He remembered being taken for repairs, which basically meant the few and damaged sensor nodes were removed and never replaced, to the point he now needs very rough and direct handling to have anything _felt_ and _done._

  


Fated to be considered a _freak,_ Shockwave’s burden wouldn’t end up like this: most subjects became sedate and contrite after the procedure, but not Shockwave: always a mercurial tempered senator, he remembered having been deemed too dangerous still to be released back _outside_ lacking only hands and face.

  


If it depended on pre-Empurata Shockwave, turning him into a floating depolarised _spark_ would still have been dangerous _._

  


For him, Empurata alone wouldn't be enough. They had to do more still. He would be their perfect _test subject_ and _example_.

  


It was how Shadowplay came into effect.

  


He remembered few details on his mnemosurgical procedure, his leftover, ill-repaired interface array pinging for proper repairs and getting dutifully ignored: as he mutedly screamed, flailed and trashed and they took him off the cell, the faceplates of Trepan filled his sight and he finally went numb.

  


The moment he awoke, he was coldly analysing his current situation, just come from medical stasis, his new synthesiser vocoder in place, released back into the world and his Senate.

  


The surprise his fellows had at the academy was disconcerting. The looks of pity. The whisper when they thought he wasn't listening. The way they knew his mutilation went beyond hands and face and the speculation on the current state of his interfacing device.

  


They were _distracting_. How was he supposed to get _anything_ done when everyone kept asking _if he was fine?_

  


He was finally properly functional. He was free of the morals previously binding him. Free of his extreme emotional estates. Free of the frequent need for interfacing that most mechs have. He could barely believe he used to flip tables and wreak havoc at the Senate whenever his _sparkling whims_ were not met.

  


Soon he found himself having brilliant unimpeded ideas, resolving around one-percentrers, outliers, triplechangers, six-phasers, combiners and gestalts, spark-splitting programs, cloning ancient cybertronian life, however all were denied.

  


He had been called _obsessed_ with _playing Primus_ and _tampering with Creation_.

  


None of them could comprehend? It was only logical to wish so into a world where the access to the well of sparks was gone and Vector Sigma worked no more, and the Matrix was restricted in access to the Elite and the Prime who _he_ had made _fit_ to receive such honour, and who betrayed them so.

  


Shockwave would never forget he day he was contacted by the rising Decepticon movement.

  


The mysterious courier, the navy blue decepticon communications carrier-host that wormed himself on his life in more ways than one, came along his glossy black cybercat, not a regular pet, but his own sparked _creation_ , Ravage, promising the opportunity and offer of a lifetime.

  


All Shockwave had to do was _talk_ to the leader of the opposition.

  


And meet they did.

  


Shockwave, cold, distant and unemotional since the _intervention_ of the Institute, didn't fall for the charm, the cunning and the rugged beauty of the rebel – even though his rational mind appreciated the thought of him immensely, he recalled, an electrical arch passing through his whole body – nor to the silver tongue of the broad-chested courier.

  


He instantly knew, by their body language and little signs, that they _had_ to be a spark _bonded_ couple, and back then Shockwave had absolutely no inkling of the _logical_ invitation to join them in bond that would ever follow.

  


Shockwave couldn't deny however that he fell for a pair of hands.

  


Forged hands. In a box.

  


He remembered staring longingly at those hands. They weren't his own lost ones, by now already melted down and gone. They had a lavender tone, and were quite delicate looking, refined even, although clearly _male,_ looking amazingly _fresh_.

  


He had a feeling he met these hands before at the Senate, once, but he couldn't remember when or who. They were untraceable as they were, purged of its original CNA and frozen in stasis, ready for implantation.

  


He remembered the humiliation of having to rely on other people for his experiments now that he had _claws_. He remembered falling in logical contradiction, asking the price for the hands, yet knowing that by _law_ he was not allowed to replace his own.

  


The moment he showed up around without the claws, sporting his new, refined lavender hands, _they_ would _know._

  


Shockwave wasn't stupid. The hands were a symbol of what he had lost and what he _could_ have back.

  


He couldn't be brought to _care_ about the poor soul that lost these hands: he suspected whoever it was, was probably dead or reformatted, or wishing he had been.

  


He was willing to accept their price, whichever it was, just to have these hands.

  


Not out of pride. Not out of whim.

  


He needed normal hands, at least one, to keep doing Science, but as soon as he showed up with normal hands, he would lose his lab and the rest of his life, being thus unable to keep his work.

  


The logical contradiction was killing him. He remembered voicing his conflict to the rebel leader, who seemed to find it _endearing_.

  


It was the moment he was offered his _Freedom._

  


Not only the hands: he had been promised a Lab.

  


( _Interesting_ how some things just never change).

  


He had been promised the freedom to experiment, to do as he pleases, even murder if needed, all in name of _Science._

  


All he had to do was say _yes_ and start working for the Decepticon side.

  


Blinking his visor to the present, Shockwave shook his head under the solvent spray, dispelling down two forming electrical arches that wormed through his midsection and around his aft and legs: knowing there would be battle and fight ahead in his future, he calculated the Decepticon chances of success were higher than the Autobot Forces, and finally took on the offer of the hands and had the right one implanted.

  


The left one was still frozen under stasis in his tower back on Cybertron.

  


The left claw was replaced by a plasma gun, both as a weapon and a _symbol_ , as he also took on a new gunformer alt mode instead of his previous flight frame, both to _spite_ his previous friends, and to attempt to appeal to his new _Lord_.

  


Thrumming with unspent charge, amplified by the ion-ladded solvent spray, Shockwave remembered the how and why his Lord was currently displeased with him, and the harsh words of dismissal he used, cupping both hands on the sides of his breastplate, feeling both his spark and the Decepticon Matrix pulsing warmly inside.

  


As soon as Microtron was properly repaired and functional, and safe, he would reward the _medic_ and have him cooperate _willingly_.

  


* * *

 

  


“And here I thought you'd cooperate willingly!”

  


Mighty Shockwave merely dipped his head in a nod, watching impassive at the Lawyercon locked behind bars, in a cell inside the corpse-laden wing of his Lab.

  


“I will not open the Space Bridge.”

  


The lawyercon huffed and the drone ignored him then, sitting on his desk and contemplating his and First’s invitation.

  


“You're accused of obstructing the Cybertronian Juridical System! I'll have you prosecuted once I'm out of here!!”

  


The drone puffed up his huge chestplate in annoyance, comming First and telling him to get ready.

  


“You cannot escape the mighty Shockwave! I have a Sparkbonding Ceremony to go! Firestar and Nautica are waiting!”

  


* * *

 

  


Nautica and Firestar waited at the dais, adorned with fancy mods and beautiful lights, the hallowed Halls alight as Reflector made sure to photograph the event, Moonracer and Knock-Out discussing on the background as Hot Rod currently talked to the other three guests.

  


“Do you think he will come?”

  


Chromia shrugged.

  


“He would better not!” Arcee growled.

  


“Don’t be unfair.” Nautica nodded, holding hands to Firestar and raising a cube “He should come. Without him there would be no proper energon!”

  


* * *

 

  


“There isn't _proper_ energon!”

  


Ratchet threw his wrench on Bonecrusher's head, doing his best to not get out of touching range from Microtron, beyond furious: how could these six idiots keep a medbay running without proper _medical grade_ energon?

  


As the constructicon balled his fists and contained himself not to hit the medic, Scavenger fished an energon cube from Mixmaster's drum.

  


“It's not medical grade, but it's energy-dense. Does it serve?”

  


Ratchet flared his hand scanner ON, nearly choking.

  


“You intend me to fuel the _kid_ with _high-grade_?? Who is the fragger who does it???”

  


He shifted on his feet, meekly.

  


“Hook does. He says it's good to kick-start a protoform.”

  


“Sure right!” Bonecrusher bellowed, hammering the head of a droneling into dust “I always feel better when Hook gives me one after a good old scrapping!”

  


_Morons and butchers, all of them!_

  


Sighing, he diluted the high-grade with standard energon, then topped Microtron's tanks with the mix: it would still give him symptoms, but certainly not a full _over_ charge, predicting he would at least have a hell of a processor-ache.

  


* * *

 

  


With a hell of a processor ache, Blast-Off awoke from his nap in the autobot brig, still very much locked, audials ringing.

  


The most obnoxious _noise_ was thundering through every speaker, and he had to struggle not to shoot his own spark to quit the torture: Blast-Off was an upper caste Vosian heavy duty flight-frame, and his tastes in music stopped at the classics and the mathematicians of the golden age.

  


“Frag it, Swindle, what's _that_ organic slag?”

  


Swindle blinked, raising a pair of soundproofing headphones.

  


“Sorry, didn't hear you with my _soundproof headphones_!”

  


He smiled, showing off the headphones.

  


“I asked what fragging scrap of _music_ is that.”

  


“Oh, I don't know how the squishies call it, but I do know you _need_ to buy this amazing piece to get rid of it!!

  


Blast-Off blinked repeatedly.

  


“Swindle. You are not trying to _sell_ me the headphone, are you?”

  


“I could. I could even offer you a discount, 50% off, just because you're my team-mate, do we have a deal?”

  


Blast-Off growled low, clenching his fists into balls, glowering.

  


* * *

 

  


Megatron glowered, _very_ interface-frustrated, fists clenched into balls, sitting on his throne, as both Starscream and Soundwave pledged him authorisation.

  


For a _joint_ enterprise. In a _submarine_.

  


What were the chances of things going _bad_?

  


“Will I _regret_ it like the time you two made up the _Dancitron_ fiasco?”

  


Bad memories of defeat and humiliation filled his mind. Both officers shook their heads.

  


Megatron sighed then, dismissing them.

  


* * *

 

  


Dismissing himself off the Constructicon Bay, Ratchet had just left Microtron, already re-plated and fixed, with Scavenger, under medical stasis to allow for inner repairs, and dutifully ignored his interface drive pinging and his own pre-transfluid dripping behind his plates.

  


The decepticon was the least dangerous of the constructicons, and despite having a couple of bolts and nuts missing and being eerily dumb, he certainly would NOT harm the _kid_ , not to mention Microtron was better off under surveillance of _Devastator_ than himself, for now.

  


He was exhausted, under-fuelled, drained of energy and will, and irremediably aroused, since having witnessed the whole débâcle since Vortex was found assaulting the mechling, until his repairs were done.

  


Even though he would usually go for more than a day without recharge and on fumes, right now he couldn't. He was too weak to complain on his perennial arousal, being almost _used_ to it by now.

  


Opening the door to his master's quarters, he got in and plopped himself without further ado across the main berth.

  


Shockwave, standing up in the middle of the room and having witnessed the previous display, unfazed by Ratchet's presence at the wrong berth, stared at him for three full minutes before speaking.

  


“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. I was expecting your return.”

  


Head stuffed down the berth's mesh, Ratchet subdued the agony for a little while and _spoke_ , muffled, generally explaining the re-plating and the repairs. Shockwave, nodding, walked closer to him, clicking open his medical panel and revealing the spooled corresponding cable and medical port.

  


“You have done well by my creation and you shall be synced immediately.”

  


Ratchet, numb with unspent charge, took a shameful long while to understand, just nodding as Shockwave synchronised the bars into full green and released their connection.

  


Shuddering as his core temperature lowered down and his interface panel stopped continuously pinging, Ratchet finally sat down, running a self-diagnostic, the single ping of the full transfluid tank reaching his systems.

  


“I’m afraid the synch wasn’t complete, _master._ ”

  


Shockwave turned, tilting his head to the right.

  


“Your progress bars are in full green and your interface drive is baseline low, as default. Estate the precise nature of your complaint and we might be able to reach common ground.”

  


Ratchet sighed.

  


“My transfluid tank is full and I can’t open my own panels to _discharge_.”

  


“I am aware.”

  


“Would it make a difference if I said I’m. Tank-full. _Dripping_?”

  


Shockwave stared, unfazed.

  


“Is this your only complaint, or is there something else lacking in the synch?”

  


Holding an in-venting, Ratchet shook his head.

  


“Very well then. Follow me to the Lab.”


	28. Making Science

The Lab rested dark, only the humm of automated machinery whirring at the background, the instant Ratchet came in, room erupting in light as Shockwave paced to the shelves.

 

“No other complaints, correct?”

 

Unceremoniously handing the medic a vial, before Ratchet could respond, Shockwave pushed him into a sitting position at the slab, led his right hand at the left side of the medic’s ventral plates and with one fingertip at the lateral seam, Ratchet’s very moist interfacing panel was unlocked.

 

“If you have no other requests, you may begin now. Make sure to collect a sizeable sample.”

 

And assumed a rigid stance, clasping his hands behind his back.

 

Ratchet, staring at his now unlocked panel, just waiting to be opened, felt for the dripping slotted _cable_ inside, finally shifting his glare to his expectant _master._

 

“Do you truly expect me to open the panel and do it here, now, in your presence, on command, like this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Deadpan, Shockwave replied, as Ratchet snorted.

 

“Aren’t you even inviting me to a drink first?”

 

Shockwave seemed to ponder for a while, finally shaking his head.

 

“High-grade might poison your sample. Perhaps _later_.”

 

At that, the vial flew right at Shockwave’s head, clanking against it and shattering on the ground.

 

“Frag you, Shockwave, what do you even want a sample for?? Can’t you obtain one anywhere else???

 

Shockwave actually in-vented and looked up to the ceilin, droning.

 

“Lord Megatron stopped giving samples when he found out I was using them to try to clone predacons, Soundwave never has a tank full enough because of his creations consuming most of his energy, not to mention what he _uses_ when with our Liege and even me, Starscream’s trine never agreed, the constructicons elected Scavenger for donation and he had so far been my most cooperative subject back in Cybertron, except when Mixmaster decided he was not OK with me being present at the _process_ , being unreasonably and illogically jealous of me and forbidding him of coming, then there was this time I asked Astrotrain but I found out the worse possible way my standard size sample vial was a bit too small for the size of his average sample, so after thoroughly cleaning every single slab and apparatus on my lab back on Cybertron I had to decline on future donations, then...”

 

“...I meant from yourself.”

 

Shockwave stopped droning, tilting his head.

 

“My current shell cannot provide samples. Female CNA is meagrely released out of the port only on occasion, following a seemingly arbitrary pattern not necessarily related to overload, in an amount sparse enough to not even remotely be scientifically relevant. Maybe with modifications I might be able to add a discharge mechanism similar to the interface cable. I wonder if inverting the port and externalising the sensors I could actually...”

 

Actually flushing up his faceplates at the idea of Shockwave _installing_ an interface cable at the port-only array, Ratchet stared aside, stuttering.

 

“...I meant, your _original_  array!”

 

Shockwave then stared down his own plates, shaking his head.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I fear you do not know the full extent of my _special_ punishment from the Institute and I should enlighten you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Enlightened, blessings from Primus himself pouring down upon himself, Red Alert beamed: he knew it!!!

 

He knew this stupid _dancing_ and _clubbing_ on duty would lead to it!

 

Staring at the shuttle-shaped hole at the wall, and seeing the two empty cells, he felt a mix of satisfaction and dread for seeing his predictions come true.

 

Following the debris, he arrived at the Rec Room, precisely at the epicentre of the catastrophe, where over a table no one less than _Swindle_ bellowed at the autobots, Blaster currently favouring his alt-mode and playing music at his highest volume, Technotor's mirrors and lights rotating and illuminating the room.

 

“Glow-in-the-dark party stickers, spiked high-grade, crystallised dark energon powder, Swindle has all your shadiest clubbing needs available! Will accept shanix, earth dollars, euros, diamonds and gold! Can also barter for things of _my_ interest...”

 

The autobots went for the shady dealer: only a few remained lost at the dance floor, too overcharged to have listened to Swindle, but still too well to collapse and stop dancing, as Blast-Off sheepishly blinked his visor on and off.

 

* * *

 

 

Visor blinking on and off, slowly, almost hypnotically, Shockwave told Ratchet in richness of details and backed up by a pile of datapads about his own personal _empurata_.

 

Rationally, Ratchet knew precisely what the procedure entailed: removal of face and left optic, leaving only the right one and the upper processor intact and removal of hands and corresponding sensors, replacing them with two-digit claws.

 

It was another thing entirely to hear it first hand, specially concerning the rarely performed _shadowplay_ , that effectively turned his master into the cold, nearly unfeeling, amoral creature he was today.

 

“So they removed the transfluid tank, among other things.”

 

Shockwave nodded, walking to the shelves and inspecting the empty vials.

 

“You do see now why I cannot provide myself with _samples_.” he turned and extended a new vial to the medic “Now. Be a cooperative subject.”

 

Ratchet shook his head.

 

“I can’t do it like this.”

 

Shockwave seemed to ponder on the subject, visor locking with the blue optics.

 

“I see. Do you require assistance?”

 

Ratchet gaped, as the scientist almost obscenely wriggled his right hand’s fingers in the air.

 

“No!!”

 

Suddenly going stiff as his spooled cable threatened leaving slot, the medic vigorously shook his head.

 

“I mean, I need privacy.”

 

The scientist then gave him a sparkless glare, nodding and going to the Lab door, activating the Bio-hazard lock and returning.

 

“We are under coded privacy now. Only another _Scientist_ may come in, and I am proud to be the only decepticon scientist left.”

 

“... _privacy_ , meaning from you too.”

 

Shockwave tilted his head to the right, then, walking closer until he was standing at an arm’s distance from the medic, moving his right hand towards the still closed red interface panel, hand sensors open wide, registering the levels of heat and humidity pooled within.

 

“I am fascinated to see your _equipment_ does not seem to agree to your illogical wish for privacy _from me_ and is responding quite adequately to my pings.”

 

Ratchet’s optics widened and focused into the dark blue visor as he felt his interface cable release a slow droplet at the back of his red plates, holding his EM-field very, very tight as Shockwave just plain hatched the panels open, staring approvingly at the sight.

 

* * *

 

 

Staring approvingly at the sight, Blast-Off smirked as he approached an already overcharged Skyfire.

 

The autobot shuttle was dancing alone in the middle of the room, too big for anyone to approach for fear of being squished while dancing, the instant the decepticon unceremoniously snatched a high-grade cube from the autobot's hands, downing it down through his chin-placed intake under his blastmask, in one single go.

 

“Hey! That drink was mine!”

 

Heat flaring up from his tanks, being now the centre of the attention of the room, Blast-Off blinked, smug. Now that was a good drink, not the slag Swindle tries to pass off to them. He immediately held Skyfire by his waist, bringing themselves together.

 

“I know somewhere very quiet... how about we launch out of here and get _lost in space_?”

 

Red Alert jumped up and down around them, finials fizzling with static. No, Skyfire, this is _fraternising with the enemy_ , this is _re-incidence_ , what are you thinking???

 

Skyfire, blinking slowly, ignoring Red Alert dutifully, buzzing with charge, opened a _large_ smirk, approaching the decepticon's audials, whispering.

 

“I'd love to _dock_ on zero _G_ under the stars.”

 

Red Alert then _glitched_ from a seizure with a heavy thud on the ground, as Blast-Off, Skyfire in tow, transformed and finally left, _rumbling_ his shuttle engines low in anticipation.

 

* * *

 

Rumbling his engines low in anticipation, Ratchet closed his optics the instant Shockwave’s right hand ghosted over the very dripping interface cable, finally taking it with a light grip as it came out of slot.

 

With what seemed to be a mixture of fascination and scientific curiosity, the scientist flared his hand scanners on, taking medical readings at the same time he circled his fingers around the girth, applying pressure and slowly, maddeningly slowly, worked them up, then down, turning the battlemask towards Ratchet’s face, visor aglow in dark blue.

 

_Interesting._

 

The mechanical sliding continued, as Ratchet gripped on his own thighs with his hands, optics still off, EM-field beginning to pulse in tandem with each movement, Shockwave’s own field held absolutely tight, despite the amount of charge building up between themselves.

 

With a tank painfully full however, the first load of transfluid came with barely no effort or even sense of relief, getting immediately stored within the vial in the scientist’s left hand.

 

Lowering his head as charge still crackled through his frame, the autobot barely registered the instant Shockwave released the still stiff spike and unceremoniously dropped him a clean mesh, and left him sitting on the slab, capping the vial and storing it back into the shelf.

 

“The fresh sample is in sufficient amount. Clean up.”

 

Ratchet, taking a long glance down and suddenly very tired as he forcibly depressurised his interface cable and slotted it back, cleaned up his inner plates from any and all _evidence_ , finally closing them and getting suddenly surprised by a deep purple energon cube.

 

“...why the frag are you offering me high-grade??”

 

“You expressed the wish to be offered high-grade.”

 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge.

 

"What is that about decepticons and high grade? I thought you were on rations and permanently starving?"

 

Shockwave, ignoring the inquiry, insisted on offering the cube.

 

“As part of the High Command I have access to a few indulgences not available to the commoners.”

 

Ratchet finally took the cube in hands and swirled it a little, finally blinking and truly _staring_ at its contents, as the scientist droned further.

 

“This comes from my Lord's stock.”

 

Ratchet squinted: Megatron's personal reserve.

 

“It is not poisoned.”

 

Ratchet managed to give Shockwave a glare: if he wasn't thinking about it before, _now_ he was.

 

"Do you require me to sample it with you thus proving it is not poisoned?"

 

Ratchet scratched his head. Was he hearing things, or Shockwave was inviting himself to drink?

 

"...why."

 

“It would be illogical to ingest anything that might harm myself, as such, my participation certainly would ensure you the high-grade on this cube is perfectly safe.”

 

He was!

 

_Sleek glitch._

 

For a second the flash image of Shockwave draping himself over his frame and leading the cube of high-grade right into his lip-plates filling his mind, added to the sudden  _satisfaction_ of knowing he would have _Megatron's_ high grade brought by his own _consort_ made Ratchet give a smirk a bit too wide: the small victories.

 

Ratchet raised the cube in a toast then, contemplating his master, and still half- _full_ of trans-electrical fluid, nearly _revved his engines_ , finally donning down a burning gulp that took almost one third of the high-grade, his optics going offline instantly. Shockwave came closer, at touching distance.

 

“I am certain my offer of Lord Megatron's _best_ is more than suitable for your needs.”

 

He caught the cube from the medic's hands, fitting his flexible straw in, raising it up and setting it to fuel a parsimonious morsel, the slight heat flowing down his tanks, reviving minutely the unspent charge he still had in his shell, as Ratchet stared at the tiny electric arch, optics dim, hands almost _grabby_ and barely avoiding to touch his master.

 

“I wouldn't mind having more than merely a _taste_. Megatron's best... certainly packs a mean punch.”

 

Shockwave stared, the mental image of Ratchet gaping while he mutilated Vortex entering his mind, as he took the straw out and returned the cube back to the medic's waiting hands, fingertips touching for a too long instant before withdrawing.

 

“I trust I have given proof enough it is not poisoned.”

 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge, as Shockwave pointed out to the Lab’s door.

 

“You are free to go to quarters, wash and enjoy your well-deserved _treat_ , in this precise fashion. I have _work_ to do.”

 

Shockwave then dipped his head in a detached nod, clasping both hands behind his back and remaining still, as Ratchet sighed, the high-grade starting to cloud his upper processors, _masochistically_ appreciating the still heavy transfluid tank underneath his plates, as he hungrily raked Shockwave’s frame up and down, and left the Lab, slow-building _arousal_ creeping up his abdominal plates.

 

* * *

 

Coldness creeping up his plates, Microtron clutched his claws over his tanks.

 

Blinking his single optic, a thundering processor-ache coming in bouts of nausea, he slowly sat up on the slab, looking around to find Scavenger ignoring him and fiddling with his _treasures_ on a corner.

 

Standing up with a thud, he checked on his systems readings, observing he no longer could transform to separate compounds of a CPU and desktop PC.

 

Walking to the computer terminal, he stared at the screen, open in his own blueprints.

 

Flailing one single datacable out, he wormed it to the computer’s main port, releasing thin feelers inside, suppressing a cackle and opening up the connections as his own HUD overflowed with the download of his blueprints.

 

The medic had designed him a mainframe alt-mode as he had given him his new layer of armour.

 

Unclenching his claws and keeping the datacable plugged, he shifted his plates and rotated on his own waist, compacting himself into a boxy, _retro_ Eniac-like mainframe, the green phosphorus screen glowing with cybertronian command lines.

 

Processors overflowing with increased capacity as his senses narrowed to his connection to the ship, he actually found out he could access every single camera feed, every single microphone, and even…

 

“ _Intruder: estate reason for roaming network.”_

 

“ _Soundwave?”_

 

* * *

 

 

Soundwave, having just come back from Megatron’s presence with Starscream, who left to plan on their joint expenditure, as he returned to surveillance, was currently connected to the Nemesis through two datacables, stalling at the sudden call.

 

“ _Microtron?”_

 

Widening his optics underneath his visor, he actually snorted. The mechling finally managed to honour his alt-mode and plugged in.

 

Hacking through the mechling’s practically non-existent firewalls without resistance, finding him strangely overcharged, Soundwave discovered he was currently accessing the terminal from the constructicon bay, and had been recently repaired, re-plated and had his alt-mode upgraded.

 

“ _Query: Microtron damaged?”_

 

Before Microtron could voice an answer, Soundwave accessed the memories from Vortex’ attempted assault, actually growling, reaching his comms towards Shockwave.

 

* * *

 

 

Shockwave, currently placing droplets of Ratchet’s transfluid into his microscope’s glassware, opened his comm channels at the sudden ping.

 

“ _Soundwave: responsible for Security. Should have been first to witness event. Requesting clarification_ _on the true nature of Microtron’s damage.”_

 

Without stopping his dutiful work, Shockwave split his HUD into his comm screen depicting Soundwave’s face, and the other half showing his current _craft_.

 

“Do not blame yourself. Not even you and your army of spies can be at every corner at the same time. It is not logical.”

 

Sending his memory file with _Vortex_ in full colours, Shockwave waited as Soundwave watched and physically _winced_ , then showed smug satisfaction at the carnage donned in just punishment.

 

“I trust I have dealt with the problem adequately. If you are satisfied, I wish to return to my work.”

 

Soundwave sent him a positive _ping_ then, calling Lord Megatron on one channel and also pinging Microtron _goodbye_ in his other comm, finally disconnecting.

 

* * *

 

 

Disconnecting, Microtron shifted his plates back into root mode in a mildly overcharged daze, shaking his head, unaware of the diluted high-grade fuelling his systems.

 

He wasn’t expecting to be expelled out of the network by Soundwave: what was the problem of him roaming there?

 

It’s not like he actually felt _bold_ to roam anywhere else on the ship anymore. Not even the prospect of getting processed energon out of carrier’s fuel lines would make him do it: he never wanted to see _that_ mech again.

 

Sagging, full with unspent energy, yet _hungry_ , he blinked thrice the instant Lord Megatron stomped in, meeting his Sire’s stern glare, the warlord kneeling down before him at optic level.

 

“I have just been informed of everything. What had gotten into you? Weren’t you being properly _watched_ by the _medic_???”

 

Microtron lowered his optic in shame.

 

“I was hungry.”

 

Megatron stalled.

 

“...You were hungry.”

 

Microtron nodded, cycling wide his optic, shifting on his feet meekly.

 

“I was _very_ hungry.”

 

Megatron raised an optic ridge in annoyance, having read Shockwave’s report where he details that Microtron tends to consume two full cubes a day plus a fair share of his carrier’s own processed fuel every solar cycle. Anyone hearing the _kid_ speak would think no one ever fuelled him since activation.

 

Taking a very deep in-vent and remembering _who_ was Microtron’s carrier, and on how he had to be very straightforward with Shockwave to get anything across, Megatron actually facepalmed.

 

“Fine. Whatever.” he sighed, the mechling staring in confusion “It’s certainly not how I wanted my creation to learn about the _facts of life._ I trust you had your lesson and will not roam around on your own until you get older and wiser.”

 

Microtron shook hastily his head, bleeping a hiccup. Megatron raised an optic ridge, then stood up, contemplating the sturdier plating around him, nodding.

 

“Very well, Microtron. You’re dismissed. Go straight to your Carrier, in the Lab, and stay with him.”

 

Microtron shifted on his feet, his world spinning, clicking his claws together. He didn’t want to leave the room alone.

 

“Can you take me there?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Take me there!!”

 

“No.”

 

The Lawyercon sighed loudly.

 

“C’mon, can’t you just _once_ act on your own and please _take_ me to the Sparkbonding Ceremony with you?”

 

“Your request is not logical. I have only two invitations and with you I would need three.”

 

The Lawyercon stuttered, then smirked.

 

“As Agent of Law on Cybertron, only bondings presided by an Official Representative are valid. I am aware there are no priests left. If you want the Bonding to be valid, you must take me. Of course, representatives require no invitation. Logically.”

 

The drone stalled, rolling a few gears, finally nodding.

 

“Fine. But you are going cuffed and bound! First!!! Prepare him and don’t forget the wig!”

 

 _Glitch_ , thought the Lawyercon, all-black plating gleaming under the low-powered cybertronian lights, Shockwave’s single optic glowing in the dark.

 

* * *

 

 

Optic glowing in the dark, Microtron more swayed than walked close his Sire, one hand held by him firmly.

 

Megatron shifted a quick glare to the mechling, asking himself if the heavier plating was disturbing his balance, unaware of the high-grade running through his lines. Remembering his gladiator days long past when his _master_ obliged him to serve and service clients against his will, he was actually glad his creation didn’t have an array to be defiled.

 

Still, most probably the _kid_ would have some kind of mental scarring from this event, and Megatron, still angry with Shockwave because of that _decepticon matrix_ , indeed needed to talk to him, now.

 

Entering the lab, he met Shockwave’s focused glare and hands at whatever it was he was analysing, as Microtron also glared.

 

He knew better than to disturb Carrier’s lab work.

 

Desisting to ask for carrier’s own fuel for now, knowing he would probably get ignored, he slowly walked to a corner, unsubspaced his _Ipad_ and quietly begun to play _Bejewelled 3_ , as Megatron, having slightly less sense, cleared his voicebox and called.

 

“Shockwave.”

 

Without stopping the inspection of Ratchet’s _sample_ , Shockwave spoke matter-of-factly, not even sparing a glance towards his Lord.

 

“Lord Megatron. I am currently busy with biologically sensitive material and cannot stop. Please take a seat and wait.”

 

Megatron, _squinting_ , unceremoniously captured Shockwave by his shoulders, rotating his stool around his axis, finally looking optics to visor and pointing to their quiet creation, as the scientist took three full seconds staring, finally droning.

 

“I presume my Lord already knows about what happened to Microtron.”

 

And turned back to his _sample_ , hands working down the scope, focusing _._ Megatron, now furious, rotated him back.

 

“Why, Shockwave? Why didn’t _you_ tell me? Why did I have to hear it from Soundwave?”

 

Fingertips still on the scope, absently sliding up and down, EM-field flat, Shockwave kept his fixed glare on Megatron.

 

“Logically, I believed contacting you would be inappropriate: I recall my Lord ordered me out of sight and that you did not even want to remember my _touch_.”

 

Megatron, who followed Shockwave’s hand motion hypnotically for three full seconds, finally shook himself off the sight, opening his mouth to speak without emitting sound, immediately clasping it shut and finally growling.

 

“That was _not_ concerning…!… nevermind. I follow your _logic_. Fine. You can contact me as you see fit, for serious reasons and anything concerning _him_. We are _not_ getting _together_ in any fashion however until you resolve your _problem_. Am I clear now??”

 

“Absolutely, my Lord.”

 

And turned back to the microscope.

 

Megatron, grimacing, shook his head: his _mate_ was too intelligent to be so fragging _dumb_ , and if he weren’t his faithful reliable _Shockwave_ Megatron might think he did _it_ on purpose just to annoy him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you doing it on purpose just to annoy me???”

 

Hook bellowed at Onslaught, who folded arms, as Brawl held the nearly stasis-locked shell of Vortex.

 

“Listen, we just need you to fix him and get him ready to have a new array installed. You are a _medic_. Is it too much to ask?”

 

Hook, perfectly aware of how and why Vortex was like _this_ , merely smirked.

 

“I have express orders to _not_ fix his particular damage.”

 

Onslaught growled. _Of course not_.

 

“At least properly close his leaking lines and top his fluids and we are leaving.”

 

Hook gave a perfunctory glance at the mech over Brawl’s shoulders.

 

“You can refuel his tanks on your collective rations and starve while he undergoes inner repairs: see if I care. This damage is not life-threatening and as far as the whole Nemesis knows was well-deserved. Strap some random plating over the gap and he’s good as new. Now out of my bay!!!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Out of the bay!!!”

 

Hot Spot, Groove and Streetwise blinked sheepishly as Blades expelled them out of the medbay.

 

“But we are _kin_! We are _gestalt_!”

 

“ _And First Aid and I are busy. Go find something else to do.”_

 

Streetwise sagged as Groove shook his head.

 

“Not cool, bro, not cool at all.”

 

As Inferno dragged a _glitched_ Red Alert down the hall, Hot Spot, resigned, threw an arm over each of their _mates’_ shoulders, focusing on the distant hard _trance_ playing.

 

* * *

 

 

Trance playing _hard_ , Swindle smirked to himself and counted his _S_ _hanix_ as the now overcharged, potentially _intoxicated_ crowd partied to the electronic sounds.

 

Blaster, currently sitting on a table with a small cube of high-grade, left both music and lights to Technotor spinning on the ceiling, blinking sheepishly as the nice _heat_ reached his frame, reminding him of another _kind_ of heat.

 

Once, Ironhide had promised getting official, first mating, sparkmerging and finally _bonding_ , and he had been too naïve back then to believe. It took him three _events_ (one with twins) to get convinced the _bonding_ would never come, one of them not even being Ironhide’s, and they definitely split.

 

Not that he _hated_ Ironhide. He had never been outright mean, merely neglectful. Blaster just wanted the cassette-support deposited. Millions of years with interest would amount to a _nice_ villa on Cybertron the day they ever returned to their home planet, and his _kids_ certainly deserved that.

 

Smirking under his high-grade, briefly missing the touches and attentions of a _mate_ , optics slightly foggy, he glared ahead, his sight narrowing to a single target in the middle of the room.

 

Strolling in slowly, _scope_ over his shoulder, confident, regal even, Perceptor parted the crowd as he held a beeline right to his direction.

 

With a courteous flourish and a slight bow, he captured Blaster’s hand in his, giving it a chaste kiss.

 

“I wager you would be conceding one _dance_ to this humble _scientist_ and _sniper_?”

 

He winked his free optic and _smiled_ , his monocle glowing darkly blue.

 

* * *

 

 

Visor going darkly blue, Shockwave observed his Lord leave the Lab, once more tracing the microscope’s scope, remembering the way he had been harshly yet rightfully dismissed earlier.

 

He had absolutely no problem with how and why Lord Megatron told him away.

 

His only current problem was the troublesome charge currently travelling through his frame, his purple interface panel pinging him for permission to open, just plain asking to be roughly filled by a _spike._

 

“Override. Abort attempt until second order.”

 

_Click._

 

Microtron, playing games and hiccuping loudly, unaware of Shockwave’s struggle, minutely raised his optic as his Carrier stalled suddenly, eerily still.

 

He stared down, finding his upper ventral plates dutifully closed. Strange. He could swear…

 

_Logically._

 

Staring further _down_ , he found the white lower panel – the port-only array originally belonging to the autobot shell – clicked open wide, its white insides exposed, blue-folded port and blue upper node at sight, a single arch of electricity flowing from his seams into them.

 

Briefly glaring at his creation, who didn’t shift from where he was, still having fun with his game, Shockwave ordered the plates closed shut, watching closely as they did, commanding a full-fledged _lock_.

 

This charge was getting out of hand, and he had to do something.

 

“Microtron.”

 

 _Swaying_ to attention, the mechling sauntered close, as Shockwave tilted his head at his unbalanced gait and contemplated his re-plating with an appreciative nod at Ratchet’s _craft_.

 

“Yes, Carrier?”

 

“Come with me. You will stay with your siblings for now.”

 

Reinforcing his overrides, Shockwave held a hand down to his creation, as he caught it and both left the Lab, on their way, the heliformer hoping to _not meet_ anyone, especially not Starscream.

 

* * *

 

 

Starscream entered the constructicon bay, smug and confident, bearing Megatron’s official seal and authorisation of his blueprints.

 

“Constructicons! It’s with great pleasure that I announce _my_ project has been _authorised_ by Lord Megatron to be built, thus I, the Second in Command _…”_

 

“ _Constructicons: build Submarine to Starscream’s needs. Megatron’s orders. Soundwave out.”_

 

Starscream sneered at Soundwave’s voice booming from the audials, clenching his fist: _nosy tapeglitch_ , stealing his moment!

 

Scrapper, master architect, walked to the outraged seeker, asking for the blueprints and extending his hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Extending his hand and opening the unlocked door, Microtron peeked into the cassetticons’ room: Carrier had _just_ left him at the door, telling him to get in and be nice, respectful and proper to his siblings and to not leave the room unless Shockwave himself came to retrieve him.

 

Allowing himself in, silently, he glared at Rumble and Frenzy, playing their PS4 without even noticing him.

 

“Hi.”

 

Screeching on his brakes at the game of _Need for Speed – Autobot Ensemble_ , both tapelings blinked and stared up at their _sibling_ , holding their uncouth tongues at Microtron’s slightly _overcharged_ sight.

 

“Can I stay here? I won’t be a bother.”

 

The two decepticons blinked, as Microtron hiccuped to them, unsubspacing his _Ipad_ and sitting on a corner, restarting his game of _Bejewelled 3_. The two cassettes shared a glance, about to comment..

 

“ _Cassettes: be nice.”_

 

Soundwave’s voice of doom echoes in the room, as his twins and the avians flinch.

 

“Damn it Sounders, you scared us!”

 

“ _Microtron: will behave. Cassettes: will behave. No pranks. No leaving the room. Menace and Ravage will join soon. Copy?”_

 

“We don’t really have a say in it, do we?”

 

“ _Negative. Soundwave out.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Soundwave, finally _out_ of the Nemesis’ systems, was about to go after Shockwave to enquire him why he left Microtron with his creations, standing properly at attention the moment Lord Megatron entered the room.

 

“At rest, Soundwave.”

 

Minutely bowing his head, Soundwave deferred to his Lord, relaxing.

 

“Lord Megatron: to what Soundwave owes visit?”

 

“Are all _my_ creations accounted for and safe?”

 

Soundwave, checking on his tapes through their bond, knowing where Microtron was, nodded. Megatron stepped closer then.

 

“Are you done with your _duties_ for the time being?”

 

Soundwave nodded, EM-field flaring slightly in amusement and detecting Megatron’s unspent _charge_ , tilting his head right as his Lord opened a wicked smirk, hands finally resting at each side of his hips, thumbs grazing his _buttons_.

 

Soundwave _knew_ where this was going, and he _liked_ it.


	29. I like to move it!

“I _like_ it!”

 

Having entered his master’s room already under the influence of his _treat_ , rebelliously occupying the main berth just because he _could_ , Ratchet spoke at no one in particular, the currently empty cube in his hands.

 

That had been a hell of a high-grade. Megatron’s _best_ was indeed great, and he wished he had a second cube to finally collapse.

 

Pity he wouldn’t sample the only _best_ he wanted to have now.

 

He giggled. He was so smashed he was even imagining Shockwave just strolled into the room, tilted his head, then slowly _crawled_ through the berth to finally settle straddling his thighs, Ratchet unable to contain himself any longer and resting both hands cupping his master’s aft.

 

“Hello, beautiful. Ready for _examination_?”

 

 _Wow, that was lame_ : Ratchet was quite glad the silent Shockwave whose aft he just groped with both hands, staring at him immobile, cracking with charge, was a mere figment of his _starved_ imagination.

 

“I'm a fully chevroned and forged _medic._ They say I’m very _good_ with my hands.”

 

He squeezed the aft, nodding appreciatively: now that was a proper _behind_ , wide and plentiful.

 

“Excellent.”

 

Ratchet nodded once more. It even talks, his interfacing protocols skyrocketing and going haywire: This high-grade is amazing.

 

“Show me your prowess then.”

 

Ratchet smirked, flaring his hand’s sensors _on_ and just feeling for the amazing _heat_ coming from the groped electrically charged aft, vision unfocused.

 

He had never had a flux so realistic before. Why not seize it?

 

“I’m going to melt you from the inside, you fragger.”

 

The Shockwave of his imagination minutely turned off its visor at his hushed tone, returning it _on_ and actually humming low his own engines appreciatively, vibration spreading through their frames, _pleased_.

 

Amazing how this high-grade was being way better than any simulation, he pondered as his array screamed to be open and his interface cable requested to be released.

 

“Is that so.”

 

Ratchet nods at the flat reply, grinning overchargedly at the battlemasked sight, digging his face at the crook of the vision’s neck, inhaling and registering the scent of lab paraphernalia, medical disinfectants, cobalt ions, heated iron and faint cybertronium laced with a slight sheen of ozone up in his processors.

 

_Fragging realistic indeed._

 

Even his sensory net was utterly fooled. He had to commend his own processors for the realism. Or the high-grade. Or both.

 

 _Click_.

 

Ratchet took a full minute to recognise the sound that nearly deafened him in the room.

 

Fleeting a glance down, he blinked his optics at the sight of an open lower interface panel between the straddling thighs.

 

“Where is the _purple_ array?”

 

The illusionary Shockwave tilted his head.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. This _port-only_ array came with the autobot shell, and it was never part of the sparkbond pact with my bondmates. Logically, only I shall dictate its use, thus I have absolutely _no_ qualms against rewarding you.”

 

Wow: he even _reasons_ like Shockwave: the illusionary bastard managed to find a _logical_ loophole to frag him without feeling like he was _betraying_ his bondmates.

 

“It is factory sealed.”

 

Ratchet snapped his mouthplates open, then shut them up, recalling the system readings he did of _Strongarm_ years ago, immediately checking the information by darting his right hand into the blue port’s entrance, probing it with a delicate fingertip.

 

This illusion was getting too realistic to be truth. The last _seal_ he removed was an impersonal, medical procedure, requested by no one less than Prowl, so that he would not have anything of interest to the enemy in case of capture to be tortured with, and he had no recording of non-medical removals in his memory. Before he could propose removing it painlessly through dissolution, the illusion spoke.

 

“I order you to _do it_ according to Tradition.”

 

Blinking as his whole shell _burned,_ transfluid tank still half-full, interface cable pledging to be let out then _into_ the port, the thought of breaking a seal the traditional way making him shudder, Ratchet _groaned_ at the mental convolutions the illusion did just to _justify_ fragging him.

 

“You amoral glitch. You are the most realistic overcharged _illusion_ I have ever had.”

 

The quite substantial Shockwave currently on his lap gave him a definite weighty _grind_ down, heat flushing up Ratchet’s faceplates.

 

“It is because I am not an illusion, Chief Medical Officer.”

 

 _Sobering up_ instantly, interfacing protocols stuttering his engines for a second, then running full force at the proximity and physical touch of his master, blinking repeatedly and forcing his own systems to run a quick diagnostic, Ratchet smacked his lips together, shaking his head.

 

His medical scan showed without doubt that it was indeed the real _Shockwave_ currently grinding his open, blue-folded, female port-only panel, on himself.

 

Feeling instantly aroused _and_ ashamed, Ratchet wanted to both break the seal in one go and immediately frag him as _ordered_ , and flee and hide: Shockwave was bonded to the two most dangerous decepticons he knew besides Starscream: he would be beaten up to a pulp the instant they found out.

 

His self-preservation protocols ordered him out of there _now_.

 

His interfacing protocols ordered him to stop _whining_ and _do it._

 

His _morals_ affirmed _fragging_ a bonded mech just isn't _proper_.

 

His slave coding told him it was an _order_.

 

_Grind._

 

Frag propriety.

 

At that, throwing his leftover morals and his self-preservation out of the window, too overcharged to not follow through the impending motions but not enough to forget taking proper consent, he slowly gripped his hands over the rich aft, firmly, asking for wordless confirmation.

 

His unspoken permission was a definite grind and slide of the lower plates, Shockwave arching his back and exposing the intake’s lid at the base of his neck, as the medic nuzzled his nosebridge against it, the lower port buzzing with charge.

 

* * *

 

 

Buzzing, Menace charged against the door of their collective room, trying to no avail to reach Soundwave.

 

They had been ordered in the room by Carrier, getting fooled: Carrier wasn’t here!

 

_Why everybody deceive poor Menace??_

 

Now they were all locked in, including the adopted cassetticon Ratbat and their half-sibling Microtron, giggling and hiccuping alone at his Ipad, single optic occasionally turning off at random intervals.

 

How could he be so infuriatingly serene about it?

 

Ravage sent a wordless _ping_ to the bee: he was old enough to understand Soundwave’s motifs by now, but it wasn’t his task to explain the cyberbees and the nightbirds to his siblings; as such, he hoped to make sure the buzzing Menace knew Carrier was perfectly fine.

 

Microtron, on his side, completely oblivious on the cassetticon’s inner struggle and everything else happening at large, tilting his head to the side and turning the Ipad as well, dizzy, currently tried to beat his own Record in _Lightning_.

 

* * *

 

 

Lightning cracked on the washracks, two white bodies slamming against the wall inside, the solvent spray turning ON over their frames, the instant Shockwave approached Ratchet’s audials and spoke very low through his flat toned vocoder.

 

“I recall from when I installed you the slave code that there was no need to tamper with your preferences to complement mine.”

 

Shuddering under his plates as solvent washed them, Ratchet observed a warm hand slide over his interface panel, offlining his optics as he felt a single fingertip insert on his side seam, snatching the panel open and firmly gripping the full, weighty cable slotting out of jack, pressurising into his palm.

 

“I have analysed your sample and wholly approved it. I estimate you still have at least a half tank for me, Chief Medical Officer.”

 

Back against the wall, Shockwave released the cable and held both of Ratchet’s shoulders with each hand and lifted himself with both legs up, feet locked behind the medic's back, blue folded port purposefully meeting the underside of the now fully pressurised red and white _spike_ , sliding up until the seal met the dripping tip.

 

“Now. I want to _feel._ Make it _hurt._ ”

 

In automatic, red hands leaving furious streaks of paint scraping the sides of the white thighs, the boxy wheeled autobot held the heavy plated heliformer up, in one single move rupturing the seal and sliding his red and white interface cable into the lower blue-folded port, slowly to the hilt, doing his best to avoid inner lining damage, receiving the trapped flow of lubricant from within.

 

Shockwave actually stalled for an instant at the searing pain that a healthy, undamaged interface array (properly connected to the neural net and with all sensors working) could transmit, vice-gripping Ratchet’s shoulders and offlining his visor, dissociating his analytical mind from the event and counting the number of spins the electrons within an atom of hydrogen could make in a click of time, locking his pedes behind the medic’s hips.

 

_Fascinating._

 

Ratchet, optics offline, felt the newly-unsealed array constrict around every single sensor in his _spike_ , irregularly at first, unwilling to move from position, revelling in the sensation and thinking about the medical footnotes on the _female_ interfacing system, recalling that it moulded its own nodes according to the first charged interface cable that ever filled it, consciously aware that he shouldn’t move until calibration was complete.

 

It never meant however he couldn’t snark.

 

“How do you _feel, master,_ knowing you’ll have my _imprint_ on you forever?”

 

Shockwave, upper processor whirring during the endless seconds the port’s inner callipers took to adjust to the stretch and morphed their structure to fit the irregularities and sensor clusters of Ratchet’s interface cable, merely rolled his hips around said cable, reinforcing the location of each cluster of sensors in his neural net, droning a not-reply.

 

“The imprint is done.”

 

Taking the cue, not really expecting a better answer, Ratchet snickered and started moving, slowly sliding in and out, as Shockwave, mind slightly fogged, ignoring the now barely residual pain in his newly-unsealed panels, and registering in a heavily encrypted log all the _steps_ required and the full learning curve of his current _experiment_ (since this array was similar yet so different from his original one), portraying himself as his own _test subject,_ finally met each slide with the grinding motion that from his calculations was the most effective.

 

“Angle 21% up and ante up thrusting power in 38% from current input.”

 

Ratchet rolled his optics: he might be _overcharged_ in every sense, but it was already getting out of his upper processes, and he was _not_ going to _frag_ in percentiles.

 

“Why. Can't. You. Just. Shut. Up!!!”

 

Each progressively harder thrust was punctuated by a single word, cooling fans stuttering on and off under the cooling spray: standing on his feet on his own hydraulics, Ratchet smirked with satisfaction at the sight of his _logical_ master gripping his shoulders, black paint streaks scraping his red crosses.

 

“You are not Lord Megatron and you cannot _make_ me shut up, and I do not authorise you to complain that I _talk too much_ like Soundwave does.”

 

Ratchet squinted, for a second almost _sighing_.

 

“Be a good slave and keep going. I am taking notes.”

 

Leave it to Shockwave to take _notes_ in a moment like this, he grinned, glaring right into his _master_ , both his optics and the blue visor darkening dangerously, Shockwave droning.

 

“Now. _Rough_.”

 

Delivering two more thrusts and being met by two particularly _voluntary_ grinds, Ratchet smirked with satisfaction.

 

“My _pleasure_.”

 

“No, Chief Medical Officer. _Mine._ ”

 

He rolled his hips around the cable, commanding his callipers to constrict at the _precise_ angles required, as Ratchet stalled, knees almost giving in, steeling himself in his hydraulics and slamming the heliformer once more against the wall mostly for balance, earning a genuine flare of Shockwave’s EM-field.

 

“I swear, for all the times you _almost_ fragged me and the synch that never took place: when I _finish,_ you won't be able to remember your own name!”

 

And resumed sliding, only this time maddeningly slowly, building _down_ charge. He had an inkling this would be the last time Shockwave would _require_ him, but he was making sure to prolong the moment the most he could, to the point even his _cold_ master would actually _require_ a future repeat.

 

“Is this a _promise._ ”

 

Shockwave's flat voice monotones, the charge building down enough for the heat to dissipate under the spray and the cooling fans to dial down as well.

 

“Still too many words together. I must be doing something _wrong_.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Is there something wrong?”

 

Soundwave dimmed his red visor, his _lord_ filling his navy blue port with his overcharged grey spike, and also pumping the tapedeck’s navy blue and white interface cable in tandem with his right hand, one datacable going down, inside and ultimately _up_ Megatron’s own port, felt _heat_ brewing behind his buttons, where he did not have any available ports or connectors, flowing upwards and overwhelming his spark with unexpected yet _welcome_ charge.

 

Briefly flaring his own optics at the shimmering spark underneath the tapedeck glass, before he could ask himself anything, Megatron had his optics covered shut by a thick navy blue datacable.

 

_Click._

 

He growled, _absurdly_ pleased as he recognised the sound: It was extremely rare that Soundwave opened his battlemask, and Megatron certainly would concede his mate the privacy of his _forged_ face whenever he felt like _opening_ up.

 

“Negative.” hushed against his audials the natural, non-vocoded voice, the datacable up Megatron’s port twisting and the tyrant’s field wobbling “Everything: looking just _right_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Right in the middle of the hall, Inferno pledged to the door.

 

“I need a medic!”

 

“ _Schedule your appointment through the Autobot Health System with Hoist.”_ bellowed Blades.

 _  
_ “But Red Alert is glitched _now_.”

 

“ _Is he deactivating, leaking energon or had suffered spark damage?”_

 

Inferno gave a once-over to his partner, sagging.

 

“ _If he isn’t, then outta here. First Aid needs his beauty recharge.”_

 

Inferno squinted at the door, approaching his audials, listening to the light hints of discussion within.

 

 

Within the autobot medbay, First Aid crosses his arms at Blades.

 

“Now what do you think you are doing?”

 

Blades smirked, proud.

 

“I'm making sure no one comes in to bother you at all, ever, like a caring _bondmate_ should.”

 

“You put our own _family_ out, Blades.”

 

“Well, they can make better use of their time outside, and I wanted my all alone time with you, is that a crime now?”

 

First Aid facepalms.

 

“Listen, I appreciate your obsessive care and you certainly know you way around an ambulance, but right now I am properly rested and thoroughly defragged and it wouldn't hurt to just take on _one_ patient.”

 

Blades stuttered.

 

“But but... it's not a _patient_ , it's Red Alert. He's glitched.”

 

“So?”

 

“Well, Red Alert is always getting glitched. It doesn't even count as medically relevant anymore. If we wait enough, he wakes up.”

 

“Blades...”

 

“Isn't it what's written in _Ratchet_ 's patient files? Every time they brought Red Alert in he just left him strapped to a slab to wait the glitch out!”

 

First Aid then rushed to silence his mouthplates with his hands, shushing him.

 

“Don't say it out loud! It's confidential!!”

 

Blades, smirking and feeling _bold_ , captured First Aid's fingers in his mouth, sucking slowly, optics focused on the other's dimming visor, the rotary melting the medic from the inside out.

 

* * *

 

Melting from the inside out, the medic pounded the burning rotary to the wall, rotating and undulating the hips up and down, sliding his _spike_ and throwing a punishing hydraulic rhythm, grinning widely as he slowly licked the solvent coming down over the closed lid of the fuel intake at the base of Shockwave's neck, eliciting involuntary shudders.

 

Suddenly popping its lid open with his dental plates and plunging his tongue in, Ratchet was actually surprised at the unexpected guttural _whine_ come from Shockwave's real vocaliser, reverberating through his frame, port callipers rippling around his cable, fans kicking on.

 

“Do I hear _reactions_? _Real_ reactions?”

 

An unmistakable pelvic roll met him, as Shockwave, vocoder flat and neutral, droned.

 

“Logical reactions. Do not change the angle.”

 

Doing precisely the opposite and changing the angling and the pounding, Ratchet allowed for the building charge to peak, grinning and purring against Shockwave's audials.

 

“I'm _fragging_ the _logic_ out of you, you slippery bastard.”

 

Angling to the side and deeply kissing his open fuel intake, Ratchet soon rested both hands against the wall, pacing up, electrical charge cracking through his transformation seams, hitting his windshield against the protruding canopy, feeling Shockwave's feet scrape against his back hips, electricity arching between their chestplates, the washrack's solvent spray still cascading down their frames.

 

Shockwave, incapable of _not_ taking written record on such _fascinating_ experiment, having the kind of pounding he liked in a healthy array fully capable of feeling eveything, marginally aware of the staggering amount of times his own chestplates pinged asking to be open for _sparkmerge_ , was instantly glad for the efficiency of his firewalls and automated medical overrides.

 

“Overload imminent. Do not hold back.”

 

Shoving one hard thrust, not holding _anything_ back, Ratchet this time allowed the interface cable to slide into jack deep enough to _click_ and lock.

 

Shockwave recorded in a _log_ the instant the charge peaked and fired into his own systems, allowing the tank of transfluid to release and wash through his lower pelvis and into his female systems, stiffening his hydraulics, locking his legs around the medic's hips and keeping in place with the aid of both arms holding behind the medic's nape, his own sight physically faltering, battlemasked face silently burying against the crook of Ratchet's neck, at the same time unconsciousness kicked in and his medical locks failed, chestplates whirring open, spark hopelessly exposed.

 

Ratchet let himself go in overload, losing conscious motor control as interfacing subroutines took full charge, opening wide his chestplates and exposing his spark, filling the room with light and remaining locked on his feet holding Shockwave up, free-floating spinning sparks merging into the blinding light.

 

The entity previously known as _Solus Prime_ , most precisely her warped, unevenly split half, a truly half-corrupted counterpart, lacking all databanks that make a Prime _be_ a Prime, once more was awoken from deep slumber through the energy of her host’s overload in receptive mode, and she snorted loudly for being currently reduced to a creepy kind of interfacing-induced apparition.

 

Approving once more on this Shockwave’s variety of vigorous mates, recalling almost sadly he wasn’t a _Prime_ , she once more experimented with overriding chestplate locks and exposing sparks to merge, obsessed in tampering with creation.

 

Knowing there was even less energy this time and particularly preferring the datacables from that other navy blue mech, she did her possible best to give a chance to Life.

 

Humming content as the sparks indeed did, rotating and merging, the corrupted _Solus Prime_ , the _Decepticon Matrix_ , thrummed deeply in the haze _._


	30. Smokescreen

Thrumming _deeply_ in the haze, Prowl walked through the dry ice smoke-filled corridor, past a resigned Inferno dragging a still glitched Red Alert from the medbay's hall.

 

Calculating there would be a chance of 86% the autobots would require a functional Emergency Room the next solar cycle, Prowl made sure to get to the main responsible for their predicted medical crisis.

 

Stepping unfazed through the Rec Room, ignoring the overcharged glances and the catcalls as he made his best not to flutter his doorwings, the officer moved right underneath the glimmering disco-globe on the ceiling, prodding him.

 

“I accuse you of promoting disorder and dissent among the ranks. Again.”

 

The disco-globe stopped rotating, in a half-transformation showing only his head towards his superior officer, vaguely recalling he had been forbidden of partying in the Lab.

 

“As far as I recall I was forbidden of using the Lab. No one ever said anything against the Rec Room!”

 

Prowl squinted, folding arms and looking up.

 

“Two decepticons escaped the brig, Skyfire is missing, Red Alert is glitched, dozens of autobots are hanging around overcharged and intoxicated, Ratchet defected to the Deceptions after _Strongarm,_ who I predicted with 94% accuracy would become – and _did_ become _–_ a _security liability_ , and to make things worse, the protectobots are on _strike_ , which means First Aid is not working on his medical duties – so we have no functional medbay for the time being. I am 97% certain your _partying_ is _not_ being conductive to the well-being of our faction right now.”

 

Technotor squinted as well, transforming completely and somersaulting down on the ground, looking _up_ to the enforcer with a defiant glare, folding arms.

 

“And who do you think you are anyway, to interrupt this high-quality, thundering _trance_ party so well-planned by no one less than _me_?”

 

Prowl kept squinting.

 

“In case you had _forgotten_ , I am the Second in Command, Prime’s highest Commended Officer, and I speak in name of Optimus Prime, your creator, who had been doing a 56% less effective job of keeping up order since Ratchet left the Autobots.”

 

Technotor scratched his chin pensively then, suddenly remembering who Prowl was and flinching, trying to find a way out of this mess, finally nodding and outstretching his right hand, saluting clumsily with the left.

 

“Pleasure to meet you _again_ , honcho, I am Technotor, _carrier’s_ self-made creation _and_ secretary of extraordinaire affairs and general partying. Can I dedicate you a _song_?”

 

He flashed his greatest smile. Prowl donned his deepest scowl.

 

* * *

 

 

Donning his deepest _scowl_ , the screeching _harpy_ threatened the five towering constructicons with his irritating voice.

 

“When I say you must _heed_ my instructions to the detail it is because I require the _submarine_ to be able of properly prospecting all the trapped fuel within the sunken _squishie_ platform! Is it so difficult to understand??? Do _not_ modify my model!”

 

Scrapper, waving Starscream dismissively, staring at the blueprints and making the _correct_ and proper modifications on the fly, shared a wordless _ping_ with his team-mates, who almost immediately started working each on their own part of the construction, functioning as a single elegant machine.

 

Except for Hook, absent on his refuelling break.

 

“ _Megatron's_ submarine will work and the Deceptions will secure this source of fuel, _Air Commander_.” Scrapper nodded, folding arms and taking his place as foreman “Your model would not withstand the outrageous pressures around the pre-salt oil layer depth, and we are deeply motivated to get this project right.”

 

Huffing, Starscream folded arms, observing the sunny beginnings of the submarine's yellow plates shining underneath the dock.

 

* * *

 

 

Docked, plates shining underneath the sun beginning to rise on the horizon, Skyfire gleamed, releasing electrical arches towards the deep purple shuttle by his side, both engines silently thrumming on the vacuum of space.

 

Nothing could disturb their _special_ space faring moment.

 

Nothing but a _third_ shuttle.

 

Astrotrain, orbiting the planet, stopped on his motions the instant he found the two other shuttles _communing_ silently, crackling charge.

 

He knew it.

 

Skyfire was _playing_ with both of them!

 

He couldn't allow that. He had to intervene.

 

Flaring his engines into life, he aimed towards the unsuspecting duo, moving.

 

* * *

 

 

Moving, focusing right and left, a pair of blue optics blinked sheepishly, a pop-up coming up his HUD indicating normal charge had been re-established in his systems after a sound frag and de _frag._

 

Slowly taking on his surroundings, he stretched his limbs, registering the fact he was _not_ dripping wet and dirty with paint transfers at the ground of the washracks: he was instead clean, dry and comfortably laid on _Shockwave's_ berth, with his three progress bars synced in green and mind clear of _interfacing thoughts_.

 

And his transfluid tank mercifully empty.

 

“Greetings. I am not sparked.”

 

A gleaming solvent-clean black hand handed him a datapad. Ratchet blinked repeatedly, taking it and slowly sitting, not quite understanding.

 

“What do you mean you are not sparked??”

 

He rotated the datapad in all directions trying to determine which was the way up.

 

“It means our tryst bore no fruit.”

 

He winced, letting the datapad fall.

 

“I know what _not_ being sparked means! I had my medical locks engaged into my sparkchamber, of _course_ you are not sparked! Were you _expecting_ to be???”

 

Shockwave tilted his head, not answering, handing him another datapad with his _log_.

 

“According to my personal encrypted log of our intercourse, despite both our medical locks, our sparkchambers opened and our sparks merged. They did not bond, but they fully merged, long and deep enough to allow for a spark to form.”

 

Ratchet stared deadly mute at the irrefutable facts, taking the second datapad.

 

“Logically, once I was aware of the happening, I ran a medical scanner in my own spark, and as I already stated, I am _not_ sparked.”

 

Ratchet snapped, throwing the datapad away, for some reason feeling strangely relieved _yet_ insulted at the fact Shockwave is _not_ sparked: he had held _nothing_ back. How come he was _not_ sparked?!

 

“Wasn’t the merge enough to allow for _sparking_? What was it I _lacked_?”

 

Shockwave handed him a new datapad then.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. It has nothing to do with your interfacing capabilities, that happen to be many, or spark energy levels, that are more than adequate. _Enough_ does not mean it has to take place. As you can see in these sound statistics in your hands, it took me literally _millions_ of years and trials to get sparked with Microtron. It was only _logical_ that this one time would result nil.”

 

He then handed him yet another datapad.

 

“Precisely because of this medical lock failure, I have devised improved firewalls and failsafe medical locks for sparkchambers while my spark was scanned for _stowaway_ newsparks, and have already installed mine. I took the liberty of _connecting_ and updating yours, as I also renewed your slave synch, just to be sure, for the period.”

 

Ratchet piled up the datapad atop the others he had been previously handed and didn’t throw away, unblinking.

 

“Apropos, in case you are interested in _future_ improvement, here are the calculations on thresholds of optimal performance from my secondary, port-only array, newly calibrated to your own _specs_ , according to built-in charge, that I took while I waited for the new firewalls to be compiled.”

 

Yet another datapad migrated to Ratchet’s pile at his master's berth. He merely stared at it.

 

“On a side note, during the autobot array’s automated self-cleaning routines, I found out it has a surprising efficiency and completely obliterated all the transfluid injected, leaving absolutely no CNA traces or evidence. It obviously works differently from the all-purpose spike-and-port model, which usually requires a very thorough cleaning that I ended not needing to perform because it was completely, utterly clean, not a single strand of CNA left. I found its workings not only practical but _fascinating_.”

 

Ratchet numbly watched the new datapad migrate to his pile as Shockwave just continued.

 

“I have also devised marked improvements on the blueprints you designed for Microtron while I waited for the firewalls to finish installing and running. The _retro_ Eniac-like mainframe alt-mode is a nice touch, but can be improved to include touch-screens, colours and a more intuitive interface.”

 

Ratchet blinked sheepishly as the pile grew.

 

“Not forgetting your personal contribution to _science_ , I have come across…”

 

“STOP!!! For Primus sake, can’t you stop _thinking_ and _working_?”

 

Shockwave glared, a datapad in his hand, immobile as the medic freaked out from his spot.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. Do not make me believe I am wasting my time in partaking of my achievements. If I had been working, instead of being here telling you everything I accomplished while you defragged, I might have devised one or two more interesting projects.”

 

Ratchet sighed. He _knew_ : so much for brilliance.

 

Sagging in place, staring down, Ratchet’s overcharged, interfacing-generated memories came up into his processor as his spark painfully tugged.

 

“What now, Shockwave?”

 

Shockwave finished handing him the previous datapad, mechanically, staring directly at him without a single stir. Ratchet clutched the datapad against his chest.

 

“What _are_ we?”

 

Shockwave stared, still unfazed, finally dipping his head down in a single nod.

 

“What we _are,_ now, is _relieved_ of excess charge, after a mutually beneficial arrangement. Logically.”

 

Ratchet angrily threw the last datapad right into Shockwave’s chevron, who offlined his visor momentarily as it bounced away, not reacting otherwise, and the outraged medic finally lunged himself against his _master_ , both falling into the ground, straddling the scientist and punching his balled fists against the protruding chestplate.

 

“Curse you and your logic! You can’t possibly mean it meant _nothing_! You _started_ it, ages ago, when you first _wormed_ yourself into my processors back when you still were _Strongarm_! You… purposefully left me without synch to make me go crazy with the need to interface then you synced me leaving me tank-full specifically to get me _ready_ to provide _samples_ , gave me _high-_ grade and ordered me to slosh myself in it, then came back full of _charge_ , wriggling your _plentiful_ aft and _protruding_ chestplates, exposing your _panels_ , and then we had the most surreal, amazing frag of all my existence, and now you come to me saying it was just a _mutually beneficial arrangement_?”

 

Shockwave then glared at him for three seconds.

 

“Had it not been a mutually beneficial arrangement?”

 

Ratchet gave him a final punch the face then, attempting to stand up, getting prevented by Shockwave’s hands capturing his fists, both sharing a long glance, the rotary finally droning.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. Be reasonable. Of course it meant something. I ranked your efforts quite highly on my list of high-quality interfacing sessions.”

 

Ratchet lowered himself approaching Shockwave right to the level of his visor, the rotary releasing his fists and slowly lowering his own hands to the medic's waist and gripping on the red hips.

 

“You… a list. You _ranked_ me. In your fragging _list._ ”

 

“It is not a fragging list. It is a list of _fragging._ All my recorded sessions, from my first ever in life, to a few mechs I met at the Senate, to the last, ranked by participants, partner’s _perceived_ versus _advertised_ skill, duration, intensity and amount of electrical discharge released during overload, properly ordered from the most productive to the least satisfying.”

 

_Of course he has a list of fragging. What does Shockwave not have databanks and charts of?_

 

“It is a very _through_ list: I am extremely attentive to detail. Know that you and your _expertise_ now feature among my three all-time best sessions.”

 

Ratchet stuttered, in between proud and outraged at being _ranked_ and compared, opening and closing his mouth without emitting a sound, as Shockwave finally pushed him aside and stood up, droning as he walked to the room’s door _._

 

“Believe me, Chief Medical Officer, I am highly amenable to an _encore._ ”

 

Staring over his shoulder right into the blue optics, Shockwave assumed a rigid stance.

 

“Just not _now_. I have duties and you can be _distracting_.”

 

Taking his time to openly rake up and down the medic, the scientist walked out of the room's door, clasping his hands behind his back as he left.

 

* * *

 

 

“He left!”

 

Prowl folded arms, staring sternly at the overcharged Jazz, Technotor held by common cuffs on his side, a dejected look in his face: how was he going to look _carrier_ Optimus in the optic if he keeps getting arrested like this?

 

“Jazz…”

 

“Sorry, Prowler. Ol’ Swindle sold his _stuff_ , then as soon as he spott’d ya threatening the disco-globe there, he made off with the merchandise.”

 

Technotor snorted at the _pet_ name, soon straightening himself and shutting up, as Prowl shifted a glower between his TIC and his current prisoner.

 

“Don’t call me Prowler, Jazz. I am Prowl, your superior officer, and you owe me respect.”

 

“Yadda, yadda, mech, dontcha be boring, just relax! Even _Perceptor_ was looking sweet an’ got som’ action, an’ Blaster’s a tough cookie. Ya coulda learn a thing or two. And let da poor mech go, he's just' a disco-ball, what can he do of _dangerous_?”

 

An idea brewing in his processors, Technotor squinted behind his cuffs, smirking, finally flaring his mirrors and lights in a dizzying vortex.

 

* * *

 

 

Dizzy, Vortex awoke to a taste of _processed energon_ in his tanks, blinking his visor slowly as he stared around.

 

Moving a hand towards his abdomen and lower down between his legs, he found a heavy grey plate haphazardly welded where he once held his proudly _modded_ array, that for some reason still _pinged_ him despite his HUD's warnings about its absence.

 

Shuddering at the painful memories amplified by the pinging, in a _good_ way, he found his own fuel topped to 47% of his needs. Glaring around the room, he took sight of a recharging Brawl, and his own superior officer, Onslaught, optics dim sitting on the ground, clearly energon-drained, a fuel line in his own arm welded shut.

 

“So you are finally awake. Enjoying my own energon in your tanks, kinky fragger? You are aware you will _pay_ for your whole inconvenience to our team, right?”

 

Vortex, amazed for _tasting_ the living energon of his own boss in his systems, clearly no self-preservation left in his core, dragged himself close, as Onslaught glowered his optics darkly at his approach.

 

“Can't _pay_ anymore until I get further _fixed_. You don't like me to use my hands and I lack a real mouth.”

 

He draped himself over his boss, sliding into his lap, humming as his systems accused all sorts of errors from his absent array.

 

“That's _not_ what I meant, idiot!” he shook his head “Besides, you are _fixed_ enough as it is. In case it didn't sink on you, we couldn't get anyone to fix _th_ at here. Apparently there are limits even decepticons won't cross. Contemplate your own mess. Satisfied?”

 

Vortex hummed, rotors revving with charge he won't be able to dispel, mind racing to the memory of Shockwave mutilating him, his processor _titillating_ from phantom-array pain.

 

“I might be, Ons, I just _might_.”

 

Facepalming, Onslaught shook his head at the clearly insane rotary.

 

“As soon as Swindle finds a way to return to us, we are contacting Cybertron: he said he knows an underground _aesthetic_ body _modder_ racer-model from Velocitron that might be able to help.”

 

* * *

 

 

“We might be able to help ya.”

 

“Sounders dispels our excess charge. We could tell you how he does it.”

 

Microtron turned his slightly overcharged stare at the twins.

 

“That is, if ya help us to the _high-grade_ that fuelled ya.”

 

Blinking, his single optic dimmed as he subspaced the Ipad Air II, hiccuping with a small crackle of charge.

 

“What’s high-grade?”

 

Rumble smirked, nudging Frenzy.

 

“Kid, we are many times your age. We sneaked past Sounders enough to recognise when a mech has unspent charge from high-grade in his tanks, and we want some too.”

 

Microtron scratched his head with a datacable, static fizzling. He had no idea what they were talking about.

 

Ravage rolled his optics at them. Younglings: always thinking getting sloshed in high-grade is a great time!

 

As soon as Microtron turned to request further clarification, the room doors whirred open, revealing the solid faceplates of Shockwave, gleaming clean with solvents, hands clasped behind his back, having opened it with ease as soon as he flared Megatron’s spark frequency at the door locks.

 

(Soundwave wouldn’t be pleased once he reviewed the logs, but Shockwave was sure the tapedeck didn’t expect him of all mechs to not have figured out how these types of locks worked by now, anyway, so he merely left a note explaining he had to retrieve his creation and didn’t want to disturb either of his bondmates.)

 

“Microtron. As promised I am here to retrieve you.”

 

The kid turned on his heels, _hiccuping_ and crackling charge. Shockwave walked towards his creation, flaring his hand scanners _on_ as he moved his servo above his head.

 

Wondering how he missed it earlier and blaming his own _excess charge_ back then to have prevented his processors of properly reasoning, he turned to the cassettes, minutely dipping his head.

 

“I trust you have not fuelled him with _anything_.”

 

Truly having _not_ , all cassettes shook their heads as Microtron tilted his in confusion. Shockwave, coming to the logical conclusion, held a servo to his creation, beckoning him to hold it and come along.

 

* * *

 

 

“Come along, yo!”

 

Nodding, Prowl and Jazz numbly followed a smug Technotor in a muted daze as his mirrors swirled with light, hypnotising both.

 

Passing by the autobots currently ignoring them as they tried getting to their own quarters for a sound recharge, defrag and some of them also a frag, he came by Prowl's door, smirking a bit too wide.

 

“Officers, I detected you both have a lot of unresolved tension: you are to remain in this room together until you work it out.”

 

As Technotor sauntered away in a glee, humming, both SIC and TIC silently obeyed, entering Prowl's berthroom and locking themselves.

 

* * *

 

 

Locking themselves through his _cortical psychic patch_ , Shockwave walked side by side with Microtron, draining out the charge to his own frame as he took the pathway between the cassetticons’ and his own room.

 

As the mechling slowly came to default levels and stopped swaying and hiccuping with each step, Shockwave had already checked the logs of his recent _surgery_ , confirmed his suspicions that he had been fuelled with diluted high-grade after the procedure, and finally resynchronised his systems with Microtron’s, calling his attention.

 

“They might be your siblings and trustful enough to be around, but even they depend on Soundwave for fuelling, so no, they cannot be trusted for sources of energon. Especially not the twins. Do you copy?”

 

Microtron nodded, hopeful, beaming.

 

“Then should I only fuel with your processed energon???”

 

Shockwave shook his head.

 

“I do not possess the same frame type that Soundwave does, so I cannot completely sustain you with my own processed fuel, only as complimentary formula.”

 

Microtron tilted his head to the left, still a bit hopeful.

 

“Can I have any other mech’s _processed_ fuels then?”

 

Shockwave stared, droning a not-reply.

 

“Once you are properly upgraded your _logical_ craving for other mech’s processed energon will cease, and the fuel of choice for your frame will be, as expected for fully upgraded cybertronians, standard energon cubes provided by the common energon dispenser or other trusted mecha.”

 

Microtron sagged then: he liked the processed fuel so much!

 

“Like who?”

 

“Logically, like Soundwave, me, and your _Sire_.”

 

Shockwave finally stopped before his door, opening it, the instant Microtron disconnected himself from the _cortical psychic patch_ and sauntered inside the room, screaming from within.

 

“What about the medic?”

 

“The medic is a trusted adult as well.” Shockwave spoke from the outside, pooling his medical cable in and closing his medical panel.

 

A dark grey datacable then came out, coiling around Shockwave’s right hand, pulling him inside.

 

“I meant, what about the medic? Where is he?”

 

Shockwave blinked his visor twice, noticing Ratchet was no longer there. Apparently unaffected, he merely caught his creation’s right claw in his left hand.

 

“He must be busy _working_ at the Lab as a responsible assistant should. We are getting your trusted energon cube. Come.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Come.”

 

The Lawyercon sighed, raising his cuffed hands at the drone First, as Mighty Shockwave waited before the stairwell to the hallowed Halls.

 

“Please? Do you really think it’s proper that I get there in cuffs? What is everyone going to think?”

 

First pondered for a while, turning his screen head to his _master_.

 

“He has a point, Mighty Shockwave.”

 

Mighty Shockwave, holding a very purple, high-grade energon cube with a huge purple bow over it as a special gift, exasperated, _sighed_.


	31. Desperate Times

Exasperated, Ratchet sighed, hastily erasing the computer files and shutting it down with a punch at the touch screen.

  


Sliding slowly down on the wall and finally sitting on the ground, Ratchet felt numb, spark tugging at long, regular intervals.

  


He had to get out of here quickly. Soundwave might not be able to read his mind, and he might not be allowed to do or say anything to even remotely put his _master_ in danger, but he is certain that everyone soon would _know_.

  


How to get out of the decepticon base however without getting insane with the need to specifically interface his master once the synch time was over?

  


Taking Microtron with him, although technically feasible as long as he never meant harm, and permanently keeping the _kid_ at touching range was not an option: the whole decepticon fleet would make of him a beacon, and he would be chased for life: there would be a hefty reward in his sparkchamber, preferably full with his spark still _beating_.

  


Recalling the way Shockwave trashed Vortex, he shook his head: he certainly had no intentions of having similar destiny, in case Shockwave found him first, and he didn’t want to imagine what Megatron might do to him.

  


Convincing Shockwave to release him off slavery wasn’t an option.

  


Convincing Shockwave to come along with him wasn’t an option either.

  


Or was it?

  


Squinting and recalling how Shockwave actually had been an autobot once, managed to partially fit among the autobots during his mission of taking away the paperweight and somehow meddling with the Matrix, recalling how he apparently could change his spark frequency, for an instant Ratchet nurtured the notion that Shockwave might willingly return with him to the autobots and permanently disguise himself out of reach of his bondmates, once more, and...

  


Shaking his head in a negative as his spark tugged once more, he held his head between his hands.

  


Shockwave might deceive and even lead his bondmates on, but he wouldn’t leave his newspark alone with the decepticon cybersharks.

  


Taking the newspark along didn’t seem _logical_ : the kid wouldn’t understand.

  


Hell, not even Ratchet _understood_ the full extent of the whole mess.

  


Since he was coded to never do anything that might remotely bring harm to his master, he _has_ to get out of here before…

  


“Medic?”

  


Ratchet startled, turning on his heels as he met the sight of a running mechling carrying an energon cube in one datacable, having another slotted inside the cracked lid of the cube, pulsing aglow with very dark purple biolights alternated with pink energon, both arms and claws open wide, continuously and slowly fuelling as he jumped into his lap, _cackling_.

  


“Carrier told me I can’t fuel with anyone’s processed energon but his, but I’m hungry. Can I have yours? Just a tiny eeny bit?”

  


Ratchet bulged his optics, fleeting a glance between the _cute little thing_ asking for his energon and the stern Shockwave, hands clasped behind his back.

  


“Microtron. What did I say about asking mecha for processed energon? Do not bother the Chief Medical Officer for _that_ specific need. I shall _fuel_ you later.”

  


Microtron mumbled a _sorry_ and stared up at the horrified medic and tilted his head, simply hugging him tight with four datacables, optic offline, chirping and clicking like an innocent newspark who did _not_ just ask to have his _own fuel_ for mealtime, as Shockwave, paddles rotating slowly, dipped his head in a nod.

  


“He said he missed you, Chief Medical Officer. I am here to indulge him.”

  


Holding the clicking _newspark_ and registering his new weight, recalibrating his pistons to hold the weight without effort, he turned to Shockwave.

  


“That’s unexpectedly kind of you, _master_.”

  


Without realising the irony, Shockwave nodded, staring right at his optics with his dimming visor.

  


“I can be very _indulgent_ , Chief Medical Officer, as you must know already. Now, Microtron, be quiet and do not disturb us. We have _work_ to do.”

  


Giving him a last hug and jumping off his arms, Microtron brought out a third datacable with his _Ipad_ and a fourth out, releasing its feelers and touching delicately its screen, typing his code in and opening up his newest favourite game, _Hexy!_ , as Ratchet’s spark once more tugged.

  


“Do you have _anything_ to report to me?”

  


Ratchet pondered for an instant, scrutinising his master’s flat glare and EM-field, finally unsubspacing the minerals and chemicals he took from Mixmaster right before coming to the lab this morning.

  


“These are the substances needed to make a protoform from scratch, according to the analysis of non-sparked protoforms occasionally found at the Hotspots back on Cybertron. They were purified and taken from mineral sources, except from cybertronium, recycled from deceased decepticon frames and from waste-produce from living mechs, having had all its CNA purged. You will notice however the proportion required to produce a protoform is almost the same found in...”

  


“I am aware, henceforth the _sample._ It certainly deserves proper study, but for now the crude data suffices. It is certainly _fascinating_ to imagine the reasons why it resembles transfluid.”

  


“What’s transfluid?”

  


Ratchet winced as Shockwave _glared_ at his creation, who stopped playing and turned his expecting giant optic to them.

  


“Microtron, you will connect your audials to that Ipad, turn the volume _on_ on its loudest and play whatever it is you play there. I will not tolerate your _curiosity._ Do you copy?”

  


“But I...”

  


“Need I remind you of what happened when you acted on your _misplaced curiosity_ , or have you already forgotten about Vortex?”

  


Microtron shut up and shook his head with his optic cycled very wide.

  


“No, Carrier.”

  


He then instantly inserted one single feeler at the earphone plug, muting the game’s music and turning his optic to the screen.

  


“Shockwave, wasn’t it too harsh?”

  


Shockwave then turned to him, slowly.

  


“ _Vortex_ was too harsh. I am being _protective._ ”

  


Ratchet opened his mouth without a sound, then closed it in a very lopsided smirk.

  


“So you do _care._ ”

  


Shockwave blinked, assuming a rigid stance, droning.

  


“Continue on your progress about the protoform plant, Chief Medical Officer. I am _listening_.”

  


* * *

 

  


“I’m listening.”

  


Swindle knelt down, handing his _boss_ part of his profits, allegedly _all_ the energon _._

  


“This was our day’s fare, mine and Blast-Off’s, at the Autobot’s Techno Party.”

  


Onslaught rested his head on his right hand, optics weak and dim with lack of energon, almost mechanically taking a chipped piece into his feeding intake and fuelling on it.

  


“I know you profited way more than that, but I’m not capable of beating you to a pulp for your dishonesty right now. Where is Blast-Off?”

  


* * *

 

 

Blast-Off evaded a punch as Astrotrain flew right through where he expected him to be, cursing all the way until he hit the _International Space Station_ , shaking his head with a _growl._

  


“Do you think yourself intelligent, can’t you see this _glitch_ had been leading us on???”

  


Blast-Off turned to Skyfire, currently lounging against the spread remnants of the _MIR_ space station, and _winked_ , the autobot blowing him a kiss as Astrotrain blinked, squinting and trying to _focus_ his defective optics to confirm what he thought he saw.

  


“What can I say. I have an unhealthy weakness for _upper caste_ Vosians.”

  


Astrotrain gaped.

  


“Please! Blast-Off! Even I am not _that_ blind!!!”

  


Sagging as Blast-Off flew off to Skyfire and swept him off his feet, nuzzling his battlemask against the crook of his neck and whispering something against his audials that made him _giggle_ , Astrotrain blinked sheepishly as both shuttle-moded and left.

  


Finally, dejected, taking a peek inside one of the windows of the International Space Station, his optic met a duo of scared astronauts hugging themselves in panic, one Russian, one from USA, eyes open wide.

  


“What, haven’t you ever seen a couple of shuttles _making out_ who suddenly _made off_?”

  


* * *

 

  


“Made off. With that autobot shuttle that one day was decepticon.”

  


Swindle nodded, as Onslaught sighed.

  


“I see. I can understand the appeal. Blast-Off is a real upper caste _gentlemech_ , not a living trashed rack like our lovely piece of _shareware_ here.”

  


Before Vortex could act _offended_ , Onslaught waved his hand dismissively at him and checked on his energon levels, sadly concluding it was still too far from ideal functioning levels, giving a glance to Brawl, who puffed up.

  


“Swindle. The boss _saved_ Vortex with his own fuel.”

  


At that Vortex _purred_ , draping himself at his boss’ feet, as Onslaught, still _mad_ at the torturer, literally kicked him away.

  


“Hey! No kicking! Is this a way of treating me? I recall you _enjoyed_ this frame many and many times before!”

  


“I did, and I will keep treating you like the piece of shareware you are, and you know you _like_ it. Now, shut up, glitch, and fetch me that energon.”

  


His EM-field flared with satisfaction as Vortex nodded, _purring_ and getting to Swindle, looking down and stretching his right hand, palm up.

  


“You heard the boss.”

  


“Yeah! He’s our hero! Give him more.” bellowed Brawl.

  


Swindle widened his purple optics, meekly giving half a cube from subspace, as Brawl squinted sternly, shaking his head, and Swindle looked at the ceiling, _sighing_ and handing him now a full energon cube.

  


* * *

  


 

“A full high-grade energon cube? For me??”

  


Mighty Shockwave nodded, as Nautica, cradling the purple cube with a fancy _bow_ over it, nudged Firestar.

  


“We are very grateful for your arrival, Shockwave. Without you, there wouldn’t be a party.”

  


Mighty Shockwave stared at First, who nodded back.

  


“You might be thieving feeemale autobots but _Sparkbonds_ are important. Even Lord Megatron has his _decepticon_ trinebond.”

  


The autobots shared uncomfortable glances, as First, the drone, approached his boss and whispered that he shouldn’t be _that_ honest in a social situation, immediately clasping his claws together.

  


“Look at the time, isn’t it almost the moment to celebrate the bonding already?”

  


Wheeling himself out of sight for an instant, he returned dragging the Lawyercon, who was already beginning to chug on energon treats.

  


“Since all the _priests_ are deactivated and gone...”

  


“Certainly. I recall I might have at least five irrecoverable carcasses of long gone priests without hands or heads and their innards flailing out into the West Wing with all the other hung corpses. All feeemale autobots, logically.”

  


The autobots gaped, glowering at the clueless Mighty Shockwave, who kept staring at them.

  


“What?”

  


Chromia held Arcee to prevent her from attacking, as Knock-Out dragged a nearly crying Moonracer out of sight.

  


“Shockwave. You are a _sparkless drone_.”

  


Turning surprised to the voice, wondering he might have been _discovered_ , he found Hot Rod folding arms at him, as First once more intervened, dragging the Lawyercon back and calling everyone’s attention.

  


“Please everyone. Mighty Shockwave, your esteemed guest, thought about everything and brought his own Lawyercon.”

  


“Excuse- _moi_? I’m no one’s _Lawyercon_! I’m my own Lawyercon, and my name is Judgelaw!”

  


First _shhh_ -ed at him, immediately turning to the small crowd.

  


“Precisely. Mighty Shockwave’s own Lawyercon, Judgelaw. You know, to make the Sparkbonding Official.”

  


Arcee immediately turned and _glowered_ at Reflector, who raised their hands in self-defence.

  


“We were going to have it officiated by Mail Order later, but Shockwave’s own Lawyercon is great too!”

  


Mighty Shockwave blinked his single optic, recalling on his automated response program something _nice_ to say, raising an energon cube up.

  


“What can the Mighty Shockwave say. Sparkbonds are _important._ ”

  


First called up on the applause, everybody agreeing, clapping hands and nodding along.

  


* * *

  


 

Nodding along as Ratchet finished talking, Shockwave finally walked to the desk, contemplating the mounted protoform plant and scrutinising the gleaming pure minerals stored in transparent vials.

  


“It has been a very _good_ progress, Chief Medical Officer and it will earn you a compliment in my report to _my Lord_. As I suspected, you function better with _positive_ stimulus.”

  


Ratchet stalled, his spark tugging, as Shockwave passed by him and briefly touched his left hand to the medic’s chestplate, grazing his fingertips down and finally _palming_ the red interface panel, the autobot desperately fleeting a glance at Microtron, to find him still immersed in his _Ipad_.

  


“Shockwave! Your creation is _here_.”

  


“And not paying attention, as a proper obedient creation ordered not to listen or look, should.”

  


Shockwave then recalled his hand back, walking past as if nothing happened, and Ratchet stared around, making sure Microtron indeed didn’t see anything, deflecting the subject.

  


“I worked _hard_ at the plant. I suppose I could have an extra ration of energon.”

  


Stopping by the door, Shockwave droned.

  


“Unfortunately you have abused my trust with the free-pass card and you are not allowed to use it for now.”

  


Ratchet gaped, staring in disbelief, the instant Shockwave unsubspaced the card and left the room, communicating that _he_ would _get it._

  


* * *

 

 

“I’ll get it!”

  


Leaving the Constructicon’s Bay, Scavenger vehicle-moded and rolled out, as Starscream, arms folded, leered.

  


“You dreaded _peons_ , can’t you do anything right and just _have_ the materials required? Did you really _have_ to send your buffoon??”

  


Mixmaster _stalled_ , turning to face Starscream, staring down at him with a manic glare, as the other _constructicons_ stopped working and Scrapper lounged against Starscream.

  


“Screamer, bad choice of words. Mixmaster’s _adores_ Scavenger and he isn’t exactly _stable._ ”

  


Starscream gulped, widening his optics, as Mixmaster, unsubspacing two dangerous-looking vials and brandishing them dangerously, _growled._

  


* * *

 

  


Growling dangerously, brandishing the two _snipers_ he swindled off Swindle, Perceptor kicked open Ironhide’s door.

  


Ironhide, just trying to rest away from the infernal _party_ that had been taking place, stared at the two red dots hovering over his sparkchamber and groaned.

  


“And here I thought only Blaster wanted to kill me.”

  


Smirking, Perceptor adjusted his monocle and cocked the scope from his shoulder, sending him an additional red dot.

  


Startling, Ironhide raised his hands up in self-defence and scurried to a corner of the room.

  


“Mech, what did I ever do to _you_???”

  


Looking down at the crouched arms specialist, Perceptor stepped aside, revealing the stern faceplates of…

  


“Blaster. Why am I not surprised??”

  


Looking down, he knelt down to be at his face level.

  


“Thanks to Wheeljack’s latest _plot device unit_ ’s explosion, perhaps added to some of the _dark_ energon Swindle smuggled into the party, Perceptor has apparently decided to reveal to the world his unhealthy fondness for big guns, but nothing I’m not used to by now, right?”

  


Ironhide facepalmed.

  


“Isn’t it enough that you’re _suing_ me? By the way, where is your fragging _lawyercon_??”

  


* * *

  


The Lawyercon, dreading the whole situation _,_ sighed as he sat by a table sipping on a fancy energon drink, watching the stupidly small number of guests awkwardly fraternising in this pitiful Sparkbonding Ceremony.

  


“First, my _friend_.”

  


The screen-faced drone rolled closer, tilting his screen head.

  


“I’m not your friend.”

  


“Whatever.” he waved his had at the scenery, and we see _Mighty Shockwave_ getting hit across his head by an apparently infuriated Nautica “Are you serious they are calling it a party?”

  


“Actually a Sparkbonding Ceremony. Supposed to be _officiated_. By you. If you don’t get too overcharged before the right moment, that is.”

  


Judgelaw, no intention of officiating anything, just raised his cube, shaking his head and holding a smirk.

  


 

* * *

 

 

Shaking his head and holding a smirk, Starscream hid behind a group of columns as the enraged Mixmaster roared passing by him, his mixer drum rotating furiously as he somehow bellowed _and_ stuttered screaming threats against his existence.

  


Aware that the Constructicons are loyal enough and the submarine would be ready even without his supervision, especially now that Scrapper modified his plans anyway and Scavenger left to gather whatever it was lacking, he cleaned out some dust, deciding that he was due some well deserved rest.

  


Walking to his trine’s room, he got to the door just to find it…

  


“Locked?”

  


He knocked at the door, hearing _Thundercracker_ ’s voice from within.

  


“ _Busy. Warp needs me. Come back later, Screamer.”_

  


Outraged as he thought he heard the echo of Skywarp’s _giggle_ , Starscream, exasperated, sighed.

  


* * *

 

  


Exasperated, Optimus _sighed._

  


“Elita, I need to refuel.”

  


She purred, not letting him up, placing a lazy leg over his interface panels.

  


“We have a whole year to make up for. Once more.”

  


“But I’m _ravenous_!”

  


“What a coincidence. Me too.”

  


She somehow wormed herself completely over his frame. He pinched his nosebridge.

  


“That was _not_ what I meant.” he slowly extracted himself from under her, as she effectively prevented him like she possessed _eight_ legs.

  


“But I miss _you_.”

  


She ran a hand over Optimus’ now closed interface panel, as he squirmed reflexively holding both thighs closed, clearly annoyed.

  


“Since when I have become a synonym to my own _spike_?”

  


She ignored him, coming close to his audials and whispering.

  


“Primes can be so _virile_. My _port_ is empty _._ It needs tending to.”

  


At that, Optimus _snapped_ , finally pushing her out of the recharge berth to the ground and jumping off it.

  


“What a _coincidence._ My port _too_!!!! It has never had any attention since we sparkbonded millions of years ago!!! Only one of us is ever fulfilled! Happy??? Now let me go! You drained my tanks dry and I need to gather a couple of cubes!!!”

  


* * *

 

  


“Needing to gather a couple of _cubes_?”

  


Shockwave, standing before the energon dispenser, filling his fourth cube, _stopped._

  


“What do I owe your presence, Starscream.”

  


“I thought the dispenser was _public_. But don’t worry, I’ll _wait_ my turn.”

  


Starscream smirked, openly counting on the cubes Shockwave was filling.

  


“One, two, three, four… five. And here I thought _Soundwave_ was the only one with family issues big enough to make him an energon _chugger_.”

  


Shockwave stopped filling the fifth cube.

  


“I also have a _creation_ in case you forgot. He has been recently damaged, operated on, re-plated and upgraded. His consummation is higher than an adult frame. Not to mention my own self, housing the _Decepticon_ _Matrix_. And of course, the _medic_ , my direct responsibility.”

  


“I see. He must be getting _rewarded_ for good _service_. Again.”

  


Unfazed, he replied.

  


“He indeed is. My personal project for my Lord Megatron has markedly improved because of his work and direct, personal contribution.”

  


Starscream _snorted._

  


“Isn’t it _interesting_ that _you_ , the _master_ , are taking the truckload of _cubes_ home, instead of your slave? What does it say about the nature of your relations?”

  


Unaffected by provocation, Shockwave merely finished filling the fifth cube, monotoning.

  


“The Chief Medical Officer is no longer allowed to use my card. It has something to do with a certain _seeker_ provoking him into insubordination. Fortunately I am immune to your attempts. Excuse me.”

  


He subspaced the five cubes, unceremoniously turning and walking to the door, as Starscream, _hating_ being ignored, _screeched._

  


“Everybody thinks you are loyal, Shockwave, but I _will_ uncover your true, _conniving_ self, and the day I do it to your bondmate and _lord_ Megatron, not even _Soundwave_ will be able to _do anything about it_!”


	32. Desperate measures

“Soundwave: cannot do anything about it.”

  


Megatron pinched his nosebridge, lounging with his bonded away of prying optics for a chance, Soundwave’s battlemask and visor _on_.

  


“But there must be a way to convey to Shockwave that he _must_ share Microtron’s rearing with you. He’s incapable of dealing with it in a normal fashion, namely the way you do it.”

  


Soundwave sighed, not really _wanting_ to take that responsibility for himself too.

  


“Carrier coding: not equal to _experience_. Interference in carrier coding: immediate conflict anticipated. Bringing conflict: currently undesirable. Soundwave: can only help when requested, preferably not in inconvenient times like Shockwave _always_ asks.”

  


Megatron _snorted_.

  


“What you mean is you wash your hands and that you weren’t the one who finally got sparked and is _not_ coping. Trust me, I can totally understand.”

  


Soundwave remained mute, completely agreeing.

  


“Soundwave: never threw creations for _anyone else_ to look. Soundwave: superior.”

  


Megatron shook his head.

  


“I’m _worried_ about the influence that _Shockwave’s slave_ will have on him. I don’t trust him. An autobot sparksitter! Sometimes I almost agree with Starscream that Shockwave has lost his mind!”

  


Soundwave minutely stalled at the mention of Starscream as Megatron kept complaining and pacing on a circle around the room.

  


“I wouldn’t have minded a drone. Or _Scavenger_ , which I admit is almost the same. But that _medic_?”

  


* * *

 

  


“Medic?”

  


Ratchet, for the second time unable to make the protoform plant mix the chemicals and start to create cybermatter in semi-liquid form, groaned, observing with the corner of his optics the single dark grey datacable worming itself through the desk, reaching its wide open feelers at the blueprints’ datapad.

  


“Are you aware you aren’t being stealthy at all?”

  


With a quick snake-like move, the datapad was suddenly snatched away, as Ratchet attempted to take it back, futilely.

  


“Microtron! I needed that!”

  


The mechling cycled his giant optic, glowing it in a dark red undertone as the datacable pulsed dark purple, downloading the information into his systems.

  


“Microtron?”

  


At that, he suddenly released the datapad back into Ratchet’s hand, recalibrating his optic cycled almost shut in his version of a squint, slowly turning to the medic.

  


“So this is what’s this mystery project is about.”

  


Immediately lunging against the medic, pushing him back to the wall, Microtron finally trapped Ratchet’s both hands by two datacables and locked his two feet together by a third one.

  


“Where is it!??”

  


“Where is what!!! Release me!”

  


That was when a fourth datacable came towards Ratchet’s chestplate, feelers out, scraping its seams, as the medic immediately reinforced his medical locks.

  


“Now _what_ do you think you’re doing, lad???”

  


Cycling his optic down and rotating the camera-head’s objective lens around its axis, Microtron stepped close, standing on the tip of his blocky feet, looking up.

  


“My sibling.”

  


Ratchet’s spark _tugged_ and he stalled, the silence stretching between them, the instant another voice filled the room.

  


“Microtron. What do you think you are doing?”

  


Instantly releasing the medic and pooling the four cables back into slot, he stepped back, as Ratchet clutched against his chest and Shockwave immediately stomped towards him.

  


“Chief Medical Officer. I am aware by _coding_ you are incapable of causing him damage, so I do not believe you physically threatened my creation. What did you do to deserve being attacked?”

  


Before Ratchet could answer, Microtron released a datacable holding the project’s datapad up right before Shockwave’s optics.

  


“I know everything.”

  


Slowly turning towards his creation and taking the datapad, Shockwave assumed a rigid stance.

  


“Is that so.”

  


He nodded: Shockwave handed the dumbstruck Ratchet the datapad and clasped both hands behind his back.

  


“I am listening.”

  


* * *

 

  


“I’m listening.”

  


Red Alert onlined his optics at the sound of Inferno’s voice, slowly attempting to sit and getting prevented by a fire-hose right hand.

  


“I’m glad to see you’re awake. The _glitch_ took a quite long while to pass on its own, just like _Blades_ so carelessly spoke about as he refused opening us the medbay’s door.”

  


Red Alert sighed, shaking his head.

  


“I’m not in the medbay then.”

  


Inferno shook his head.

  


“No.”

  


“So you _know_ now.”

  


Red Alert held his fizzling finials, shaking his head: Now Inferno knew that the medics just wait the glitch out, which basically meant…

  


“There’s no real treatment to _that_ , is there, Red?”

  


Red Alert shook his head, deflated.

  


“One day, eventually, my processors will fry, my sparkchamber getting irremediably damaged and unable to keep a spark-to-body connection. I will end up locked inside my own spark casing, for life.”

  


Inferno pursed his lip-plates. In the event that happened, he had two choices: either egotistically remain bonded to a sparkchamber-locked, immobile, to all effects _dead_ mech, or undergo a medical _breakage_ of the bond before Red Alert’s spark is reset into a blank slate (where he will have a new life with no previous memories) which effectively meant Red Alert would be officially gone anyway.

  


“I _told_ you we shouldn’t have sparkbonded, you said I was being paranoiac, but you insisted so much...”

  


Inferno did: taking the smaller mech in arms and holding him tight, he whispered against his audials that it had been worth _it_ every single day of their lives, as Red Alert for once sunk in that embrace, letting the world and its boisterous, dangerous, unpredictable and _unsafe_ mechs outside, as Inferno spoke.

  


“Deep down I knew you’d be the _end_ of me.”

  


In the middle of Inferno’s room, seldom, very rarely, nearly never voluntarily _visited_ by Red Alert, Inferno lifted his paranoiac mech’s face up by his chin, taking him in a slow kiss, both sparks spinning fast deep inside.

 

 

* * *

 

  


Ratchet, spark spinning fast inside, held his in-venting as Microtron pointed up to him and spoke, puffed up:

  


“The project you don’t want me to know about. I know everything about it now! It’s to make new sparks! Where is my new sibling? Why can’t I see the newspark?”

  


Shockwave droned, unaffected.

  


“Because we haven’t reached the phase where a newspark is actually produced yet.”

  


Placing a hand on his creation’s back, he calmly pushed him to the desk and pointed to the independent sparkchamber and at the prototype of the protoform plant.

  


“The project is still rudimentary. Technically we could be already making newsparks, but at the Chief Medical Officer’s _request_ I have postponed that phase of the experiment until the protoform plant can manufacture a viable protoform.”

  


“Oh. I didn’t know sparks could exist outside of sparkchambers.”

  


“A normal spark can stay _outside_ , for a short period, but sparkchambers are fundamental for long term survival, hence the independent sparkchamber here.”

  


Microtron prodded the sparkchamber with a single feeler out of a datacable.

  


“Why is it outside a living mech?”

  


“Because the experiment is meant to take place in a controlled laboratory setting, not inside other mechs, full of variables that might jeopardize the randomization of the samples and the resulting charts.”

  


“Oh. I thought the medic was hiding the newspark from me. I’m sorry for the scratches.”

  


Shockwave stopped, turning to Ratchet, who remained still, merely staring back, and visually checked his _slave_ ’s chestplate to confirm the dark grey scrapes all over it, finally turning back to his creation.

  


“You thought the Chief Medical Officer was hiding the _hypothetical_ newspark from you _in his own chest_.”

  


He nodded, meekly.

  


“Why would a _hypothetical_ newspark we are _not_ yet working in producing, be hiding inside the Chief Medical Officer’s own chest?”

  


“I... didn’t know a spark could exist outside a mech’s body. I went right for his sparkchamber.”

  


Shockwave blinked his visor, staying very still.

  


“I had just given you a full cube, earlier. Don’t tell me you were _hungry._ ”

  


Microtron shifted on his feet.

  


“I was _curious_.”

  


At that, Shockwave actually exhibited a physical reaction and pinched between his visor and the battlemask.

  


“You _called_ the hypothetical newspark your _sibling_. Why?”

  


“Because a newspark is a creation and every single creation in here seems to be my sibling!”

  


Shockwave turned to Ratchet then, who instantly started _cackling_ , observed the scene for a couple of seconds and once more completely unfazed, turned his sight back to Microtron.

  


“Your reasoning is surprisingly logical. Since you are so _curious_ to the point of attacking the Chief Medical Officer for supposedly withholding information, I presume you are ready.”

  


* * *

 

  


“You’re not ready.”

  


Ramhorn sagged at the half-exploded sight of Wheeljack currently reading through a datapad labelled as _Project Triplechanger – Cassette: Ramhorn_.

  


“I’m sorry, but this is more complex than I expected. Not to mention that Perceptor is the genius between us and he’s busy on an errand on your carrier’s behalf.”

  


Ramhorn shook his head, disapprovingly.

  


His carrier couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to busy the scientist up. Ramhorn was hoping to finally be able to run the simulation on the proposed new alt-mode, especially now that everyone seemed to be busy elsewhere in the after-party.

  


“But hey, don’t be sad. You can help me with my _plot device unit III_.”

  


Ramhorn raised an optic ridge.

  


“Oh, no, this time it’s stable. I’m positive it won’t blow up like the number one and number two did. Let me explain to you...”

  


As Wheeljack started babbling, Ramhorn slowly wormed himself away.

  


He would return later when Perceptor was back and he could feel safe at the Lab.

  


* * *

 

  


At the Lab, safely among from dangerous chemicals and devices, Microtron revelled on his new gift, for once not thinking about processed energon.

  


“For me, carrier?”

  


Shockwave nodded. He could no longer rely on a mere _Ipad_ to keep his own creation busy, and decided to already start honing his future skills all the while he also redirected his curiosity to constructive things and extended him four datapads.

  


“Here you can download some instructions. These are basic projects easy enough to replicate.”

  


Microtron nearly bounced up and down in excitement as he latched one datacable at each datapad, immediately beginning to download information, as Shockwave turned to Ratchet, handing him his requested energon cube.

  


“Here is your requested cube. Apropos, you cannot be seen walking around with these scratches. People would misinterpret what happened and I do not wish to expose my creation, especially not to Starscream. You will go straight to quarters with your cube and you are not allowed to speak to anyone. Do you copy?”

  


Ratchet nodded, subspacing the cube and stealing a glance towards Microtron, a cackling puddle on the ground surrounded by datapads having the time of his life.

  


“What about Starscream? Wasn’t the _bad mech_ called _Vortex_? What’s wrong?”

  


Shockwave tilted his head right.

  


“The _subcommander_ thinks he knows about you and I. He is wrong in believing I might be emotionally compromised, when it is obvious it is nothing more than a mutually, _very_ beneficial physical arrangement enforced by slave-bonding and your particular prowess. No matter, I know he will try to gather any evidence he can. He derives special pleasure in making Lord Megatron’s life miserable, and would have no qualms in making my life be no more in the process.”

  


Ratchet stalled then, Shockwave’s glare cutting through his spark.

  


“Need I remind you, Chief Medical Officer, that in the event I am offlined for any reason, the slave coding will _pass_ the ownership of your frame and spark to my two bondmates?”

  


At that, Ratchet stalled: he hadn’t thought about it, and didn’t like in the least the idea of belonging to Megatron, or worse, to Soundwave.

  


Shockwave might be a bastard, but he was yet to be left wanting for fuel.

  


“I will go straight to quarters then, master.”

  


Shockwave nodded, as Ratchet, a tug in his spark, turned on his heels and left, for once leaving sarcasm behind.

  


* * *

 

  


Leaving sarcasm behind, Ironhide listened to what Blaster had to vent about, under the aim of what looked like a very experienced sniper.

  


He got to hear about his frustrations, his deception, his feeling of abandonment, his raising the cassettes alone while he fought and fought, and found himself feeling bad for having never valued what they one day had.

  


Lowering his head in defeat, he finally asked.

  


“I am terribly sorry for everything. I never thought it would have affected you so much. Is there anything I can honestly do to help?”

  


Blaster shook his head.

  


“Nothing, anymore. See you in Court.”

  


He turned to leave, as Perceptor adjusted his monocle and the two sniper rifles on his shoulders, puffing up his chestplate and following behind.

  


Once they were out, Ironhide finally snapped, unsubspacing his chainguns and shooting at the walls, screaming in frustration.

  


Apparently, being sorry and serving as dumpster for you ex’s frustrations under gunpoint isn’t enough anymore; he has to pay in Shanix for it too!

  


Concluding his life sucks, and that he might as well do like everyone else did and slosh himself in high-grade all around, he left his room, intent in locating Ratchet’s not-so-secret high-grade stash, rumoured to having been confiscated by Prowl.

  


* * *

  


Prowl asked himself why the frag he had been holding it out for _so long_.

  


“Stop’ thinkin’I can hear ya thinkin! How can’ya disrespect da mech dat’s polishin’yer’spike by thinkin’!!”

  


_Oh, yes, that would be the reason why._

  


Truth be told, they were forced inside the room by some trickery mind control technique and for that Technotor would pay, but soon after they were inside, it faded out and both Jazz and himself were left together, alone, no means to escape the unavoidable.

  


“Can you afford to be less uncouth in the berthroom?”

  


Jazz answered to this by returning a particularly sweet twirl of his glossa around the base of Prowl’s interface cable, slowly scraping its underside, the instant his room’s door was flung open.

  


Freezing in place, battle computer dormant, Prowl had no reaction at all to _Ironhide_ , entering the room and going in a beeline at the small pile of high-grade labelled as _evidence_.

  


“Nevermind me, I didn’t see anything, keep up the good work, I’m just taking this.”

  


He snatched two purple cubes and turned to leave, completely not staring at the _scene_ , Jazz following with a slow movement of his head, his mouthplates fitting around the _spike_ as he rotated his head and Prowl squirmed in between shame and delight, sight faltering as he rested the back of his head against the wall.

  


* * *

 

  


Head resting against the wall, in the dark, at the storage area of the Ark, Optimus Prime hid from the Universe, since everyone seemed to find him in his Office anyway, and he needed peace.

  


After having taken two energon cubes and having topped his tanks, he made sure to not return to Elita-1, mad at her egotistical self.

  


If only he could sever the sparkbond without risking his own life in the process.

  


He flinched, waiting for the angry zap from the Matrix that never came: sighing, he shook his head: even the _Matrix_ , who used to chastise him for this kind of thoughts before, had been quiet and rather mute, and he was starting to miss that _glitch_.

  


Finally, at the lack of response from the Matrix, he flung his head in his hands.

  


“Primus, my life sucks.”

  


“Join the team.”

  


Optimus startled at the voice, optics very wide at the sight of a very dejected Ironhide carrying two suspiciously purple-looking cubes, then nodded, offering the box right besides himself for him to sit.

  


The red mech then sat, knees spread apart, offering Optimus one of the cubes.

  


“Ironhide, where did it come from?”

  


Ironhide winked.

  


“It’s not like _Ratchet_ will return to get his stock back from Prowl.”

  


Optimus nearly released the cube then, automatically holding it firmer, as Ironhide chugged a quarter of his own cube, lounging against the wall, the dim light making out the boxy contours of his shell, and the Prime _stared_.

  


“Primes. Always so self-sacrificing. Just this once, Prime. Indulge yourself. It’s not like your _bondmate_ really cares with whom you fraternise. Everybody knows Elita-1 only bonded you because of your _position._ ”

  


Optimus lowered his optics to the cube, whispering.

  


“Is it that obvious.”

  


Ironhide sighed, bringing the box where he was sitting a bit closer to Optimus and placing his left arm over his Prime’s shoulders, bringing themselves close.

  


“ _Prime_. The Priests are all dead. Cybertron is dead. No one would blame you for breaking up with that _glitch_. Even if the sparkbond must remain.”

  


Optimus gaped.

  


“Very well. No more moping. I am your _bodyguard_ and will protect you. Drink that Primus-damned cube. _Now_.”


	33. Apocalypse Now

“Now. The party is awful, I’m overcharged and I still need to attend to a _cassette_ _alimony_ _trial_. I should really go.”

  


First sighed.

  


“We should just have you sparkbonding them now so we all could head home, then.”

  


Judgelaw shook his head, standing up and swaying in place.

  


“If you, my friend, opened the spacebridge for me, I would sparkbond the two female autobots _right now._ ”

  


First nearly glitched his screen-face.

  


“Mighty Shockwave is the only one who can open up the Spacebridge, and the controls are on his Tower.”

  


Judgelaw smirked, fleeting a glance at Mighty Shockwave, the now slightly overcharged, cyclopic, purple sparkless _drone_ having his energon cube on the background through a straw.

  


“Then we might have to do a little persuasion.”

  


* * *

 

  


“Do you want me to do a little _persuasion_?”

  


Onslaught gave a cruel smile, as Swindle flinched.

  


“You can’t just _force_ me!”

  


Vortex knelt down and approached the salesmech’s audials.

  


“Of course he can. He’s the boss. Now be a good mate and open the _spacebridge_. We know you have the remote controls.”

  


Swindle did: it was how he got into Cybertron every time he needed done one of his shady deals.

  


The controls were currently on his quarters with a load of goods; had he _them_ in hands when he had been arrested at the autobot bridge, he and Blast-Off would have been out of there way earlier.

  


Rubbing his hands together, he recalled how he had taken a lot of millennia to build it: he wasn’t an engineer, but was determined enough to follow on the blueprints he copied from Reflector when they were busy photographing the Cybertronian Landscapes and Views before they became old relics and plains taking rust in the background.

  


* * *

 

  


Taking in the _background_ the boxy shapes of Ironhide mingling in his unfocused memory as the high-grade met his systems, Optimus loosened his plating and for once allowed himself to relax.

  


What wouldn’t he give to go back in time and tell Elita-1 and the Priestdom to screw themselves up and just ask Ratchet for forgiveness, even if they would never be together again, and let the Matrix to whoever else might have wanted to take on it, for once questioning if he was indeed fit to lead on the autobo…

  


Suddenly exploded out of his thoughts by a gigantic black hole in the room, pulsing green and black as it oozed pinkish energon hues, he widened his optics, huddling himself against the protective shell and the boxy, strong arms of his _arms specialist_ and bodyguard.

  


“Ironhide! What’s happening? What’s that???”

  


Ironhide, squinting and holding up one of his chainguns, holding Optimus against his chestplate with his left arm, growled at the portal, observing the arrival of…

  


* * *

  


...Ratchet, having just arrived into his Master’s room for a while, currently grumbling on his fate, turned on his back to face the door as it whirred open meeting the single red optic of Microtron, who carried four datapads into one single datacable as he got inside.

  


“Carrier told me to return straight to the room after you! He promised me _his very own_ _processed energon_ if I behaved and obeyed!”

  


Ratchet raised an optic ridge, as Microtron sauntered in, letting the datapads in the desk and jumping in the main berth, taking a datacable out and scanning the surface of the berth with his feelers open wide.

  


“Let me guess. You’re looking for potential _leftover_ processed energon.”

  


Microtron gave it some thought, nodding.

  


“I’m hungry.”

  


Ratchet, watching the mechling sweep the surface memory mesh of the berth, shook his head, suddenly receiving an irritated stutter from his own nearly empty tanks and, finally unsubspacing his energon cube and cracking the lid, decided not to complain: energon was always welcome, especially now he had new priorities.

  


* * *

 

  


He had a new priority.

  


Starscream, leering at the memory of Shockwave unceremoniously ignoring him, intent in proving Megatron’s Wonder Scientist was truly disloyal and actually an opportunist, pondered on how to obtain hard evidence against him.

  


As he sulked at the mess hall, he noticed Hook half-hiding at a shadowed table on a corner, certainly taking what looked like a suspiciously _purple_ energon cube.

  


About to lash on the constructicon for slacking off here instead of being at the bay helping build the yellow submarine, the seeker squinted at the decepticon medic, who snorted, clearly overcharged, and started talking to himself.

  


“What wouldn’t I give to know _which_ of them claimed the seal.”

  


Attention suddenly peaked, Starscream came closer and sat by Hook’s table: seal?

  


“You. What the slag are you babbling about?”

  


Hook raised his cube at no-one, and downed a gulp, toasting.

  


“Shockwave, obviously. Can you believe Shockwave transferred his old, half-useless, mutilated and near unfeeling interface panel from his thirty six million year old or something purple cyclopic warframe, when he could have just started anew with the _autobot_ panel that came in that white shell?”

  


Starscream raised an optic ridge, waiting as Hook kept droning.

  


“The autobot array was zero-kilometre, _factory_ _sealed_ when Shockwave was with spark and releasing his creation. I have it in registry.”

  


Starscream, not quite understanding yet, decided to play along.

  


“...was it?”

  


Hook nodded.

  


“Not anymore, anyway.”

  


Starscream squinted.

  


“...no?”

  


“Of course not. Do you doubt my scanners? Please. I’m a _medic._ ”

  


Starscream sighed.

  


“Look, you delusional overcharged fool. Shockwave isn’t even here.”

  


Hook snorted.

  


“I know. I took the readings earlier, when he was taking those cubes and just plain left you screaming to the walls, totally ignoring you.”

  


Hook nodded and Starscream leered, holding himself not to claw at the constructicon before he extracted the whole story, finally smirking and feigning interest.

  


“Is that so?”

  


Hook snapped.

  


“Obviously. I took the readings in seconds! I’m the best medic that there is, better than Ratchet, Pharma, Flatline, Ambulon, First Aid, that illegal scrap of a _mortician_ and spare-parts dealer named _Toetag_ and even _Shockwave,_ who _thinks_ he’s a medic just because he got a fragging c _hevron_! I could have a chevron too if I wanted! I’m so skilled I could _make_ my own chevron and my chevron would make all other chevrons cry in shame! I was still a youngling and became the gladiator’s _medic_ long before Ratchet was even _through_ his full medical training!”

  


Starscream scoffed, recalling how Hook indeed learned everything from scratch by opening up fading gladiators and taking his _lessons_ with their sparks still pulsing, having never had access to the Upper Studies the forged medics had.

  


Respecting a mech capable of learning by himself, even the seeker had to agree that sometimes Hook indeed had the right to be insufferable, to the point Starscream absently nodded, humouring the constructicon, who kept bragging.

  


“My improved optical scanners showed me without doubt that the _female_ port-only original array of the white shell is no longer sealed. Someone had _fun_.”

  


Starscream blinked, as Hook continued.

  


“Pity my optic scanners can’t tell _who_ did the deed. Apparently no CNA traces left.” he sighed. “If only I could hardline and gather the _imprint_ files of the _female_ array, I would be able to tell whose spike was the first in.”

  


Starscream then stopped mute, _thinking._

  


“So you are saying Shockwave kept the shell’s sealed autobot array _and_ also transferred his original array into it, making the shell have _two_ interface arrays?”

  


“Talk about being an obsessive bastard.” Hook snorted “Two functional _valves:_ old Shockwave must really _love_ taking a spike _._ Can you imagine alternating between both?”

  


Starscream could, and futilely tried to shoo away the mental _image:_ the things he never wanted to think about.

  


“You mentioned something about _imprint?”_

  


“Oh, it’s a _function_ reminiscent of the Functionist Council. Female autobots were coded to have their arrays imprint the first charged _spike_ ever in, making them less prone to seek for interfacing outside of their _first_ because their nodes just wouldn’t fit _._ Useful for when you want shareware slaves or a _harem_ , like past traditions used to hand to authorities like the Prime.”

  


Starscream, _thinking_ , opened a dangerous smile.

  


“Then if either Soundwave or _Lord_ Megatron had done I, or both, whatever, we should find one of their very spikes imprinted in Shockwave’s _female valve._ ”

  


Hook nodded, scoffing.

  


“One of them must have imprinted it. Not that you could peacefully convince any of them to accept being hardlined to confirm who did it. It’s a bag of cybercats I don’t want to go inside.”

  


“But surely you had wanted to get _inside_.”

  


Hook smirked.

  


“Screamer. I’m not a _fan_ of Shockwave like Scavenger is, he has his _reasons_ , and I don’t hide my distaste, the fragger himself knows he’s not my _favourite_ and doesn’t care who he displeases, but I wouldn’t have minded taking that seal myself, despite everything. A seal’s a seal and I collected my share in my time.”

  


Starscream’s mind immediately fleeted to the possibility of a certain autobot _medic_ being responsible for this, an idea forming in mind.

  


He couldn’t get direct, physical confirmation of the responsible, but...

  


...if either Soundwave or Megatron had _done_ it, then neither would mind being _complimented_ about a task well done.

  


* * *

 

  


“Well done, you got the wrong destination, idiot!”

  


Swindle cursed as he contemplated the autobot storage room, one of his best sources revealed, Onslaught pulling him by an arm back into the swirling, closing _spacebridge_ as Optimus just stared.

  


So this is how the autobot’s imported goods had been disappearing!

  


Groaning, Optimus sagged. Not even in the storage room he was safe. He looked at his faithful bodyguard, still holding him like he were a prized thing, squinting and for once trying not to feel guilty for _wanting_.

  


“Ironhide.”

  


“Yes, Prime?”

  


He then absently traced a single, unique glyph at Ironhide’s left forearm with his right index, as the arms specialist widened his optics in recognition of the discreet _personal invitation_ and just plain swallowed dry, the Prime leaning closer to the boxy red mech, the _Matrix_ humming approvingly.

  


“Do you know of anywhere else on this Primus-cursed base where we might get away from everyone and everything just for a while?”

  


* * *

 

  


“It’s just for a while. I’ll be back sooner than you can think!”

  


Judgelaw nodded hopefully at Mighty Shockwave, the drone, who had managed to get overcharged and hummed non-committally.

  


“So you want to open the bridge I said I’d not open.”

  


Judgelaw nodded.

  


“But you promise to only go for the autobots, not to Lord Megatron or Soundwave.”

  


Judgelaw nodded even more, promising anything just to get his hands on the spacebridge controls, especially because he indeed was heading to the autobots anyway.

  


“Fine. With one condition.”

  


The lawyercon nodded: the _cyclops_ wasn’t that _bad_ once you go past the stupidity, and if he didn’t want to see his fellow decepticons, whatever reason he had, then who were he to trouble Shockwave by?

  


* * *

 

  


Who were he to trouble Shockwave by?

  


He was Starscream, Prince of Vos and Second in Command, obviously, hell-bent in revenge just because he could.

  


Starscream inspected his fingertips: he had at first thought of going directly for Megatron and complimenting him for taking Shockwave’s autobot seal just to see his reaction, but recalled something the tapeglitch said.

  


He was not considered trustful and loyal, so there was a fat chance he would be called a liar and schemer for trying to get Shockwave punished and would be shot down just on principle.

  


So, he had to go for Soundwave. They were _partners_ now, weren’t they?

  


“So, Soundwave? Had a lot of fun taking Shockwave’s _seal_?”

  


Soundwave tilted his head.

  


“Shockwave: long unsealed when came into bond.”

  


Starscream snorted.

  


“Sure, _partner_ , but I meant the autobot’s shell _female_ array.”

  


Soundwave actually stalled.

  


“Shockwave: transferred old array into new shell.”

  


Starscream nodded.

  


“According to Hook the current shell not only has Shockwave’s old array, unsealed and half-damaged, but also has the original shell’s autobot array, that used to be sealed until his creation was released, but not anymore as of today.”

  


Soundwave’s visor blinked.

  


“Hook said he has everything in registry. He was wondering which of you two actually were rewarded by taking the seal away.”

  


A slow smile creeping up his plates, Starscream observed the eerily still tapedeck, continuing.

  


“He even mentioned something about _imprinting_. I’m sure you or our Lord Megatron must be proud. Imagine, having one’s own _spike_ forever mirrored into a _virginal_ valve.”

  


Soundwave _stared_ , upper processor cogs whirring, visor going deep crimson. Starscream sneered, placing a hand in his mouth-plates.

  


“Ops. I suppose _Shockwave_ didn’t even tell his bondmates about the _extra_ , sealed array? I ask myself then _who_ collected the prize and is now forever marking Shockwave’s _port_. My, my. So old, _trusted_ Shockwave might have been _unfaithful_? I am shocked. I’m so sorry for mentioning. My _bad._ ”

  


EM-field pulsing in large, determined waves, Soundwave turned his visor to Starscream then, releasing a single datacable in the air, the SIC’s sight fading to black as his screech was silenced in the night.


	34. Silent Night

Silent, day and night, Ironhide would truly do anything for his Prime.

  


Even if it meant shielding him from his own obnoxious bondmate.

  


“Ironhide. What is that supposed to mean?”

  


Ironhide, having just found Elita-1 trying to get to the Prime the instant they showed up on the corridor to try to leave the Ark, because the arms specialist had no idea where on this base they could truly be on their own for a while, made sure to stay in between them, one chaingun held high.

  


“The Prime does not require your presence now.”

  


Elita squinted at Optimus, his face visible above Ironhide’s shoulder.

  


“Do you really need your _other_ _dog_ to keep you away from me, Prime?”

  


Feeling insulted, Optimus placed a hand at Ironhide’s shoulder, pushed him lightly aside and walked one determined step at her.

  


“I would trade you for my _guardian_ anytime. Actually, I’m doing precisely that. Leave our way, we are going out.”

  


She looked up at the Prime, defiantly, folding arms.

  


“Where?”

  


Optimus politely ignored her then, nodding at Ironhide to follow as he transformed and headed out of the main door, the red mech following behind, as the indignant Elita-1 screamed at them.

  


“I am your official bonded and you owe me at least the respect! How dare you desecrate the vows we took before the Priestdom!!! Prime!!!”

  


A semi-truck’s deep double horn echoed in the distance, followed by one mimicry from Ironhide.

  


“I hope you rip that _valve_ in a way the only one able to fix it would be your dear _ex_ Ratchet!!!”

  


* * *

  


Ratchet counted the minutes left before his synch bars entered the last string of red, a mix of anticipation and dread in his spark.

  


Shockwave really was taking his _time_ with the nightly routine: once returned, he first handed his creation two energon cubes, handed Ratchet another one, then caught on one for himself, Microtron cackling as he dug one datacable into each cube, the scientist continuously droning about the less sensitive aspects of his new pet project, dutifully avoiding to mention any references to transformer’s mechly fluids that he didn’t want to explain to his _kid_.

  


Then, washrack time, with Microtron managing to pull Shockwave under the spray and being _lectured_ by the silent stare of doom into apologising and promising to behave, a full cycle of events that took way longer to go through than the simple description suggested simply because Shockwave insisted in cleaning each of the twelve datacables, segment by segment, one by one.

  


Finally, after attempting to make a mechling bouncing full with the wasted energy of two cubes to quiet down and get into recharge, to no effect, Shockwave desisted and just finished inducing forced recharge into his creation via _cortical_ _psychic_ _patch_ , immediately opening his upper ventral plates and jacking the reverse-fuelling processed energon line out, connecting it into his creation and starting the ritual of providing him the complimentary ration of nanite-enriched energon.

  


Obviously, having stretched slow the consumption of his own cube to have something to think about while he waited for Shockwave to deem his carrier tasks _done_ and finally remember to synch his bars into full green, mostly to avoid having _ideas_ , Ratchet for a second nurtured the notion he might not receive one, immediately shaking his head.

  


He had done nothing to not receive the synch. In fact, if he remembered well, Shockwave said he would make a _good_ report for Megatron for his initial progress this morning.

  


Ratchet groaned. Sometimes he would have preferred dealing with the kind of _master_ that donned physical beatings, punished at random, handed him dull and dangerous manual labour, denied energy and just _fragged_ him into submission: Shockwave had a tendency to be passive-aggressive that would unnerve any mech.

  


Not to mention that being a Science Caste mech (like himself) utterly obsessed with working, having even devised a scientific workaround to not need to control his slave by _interfacing_ , Shockwave clearly was mostly interested in his _mind._

  


_Mostly_ , he thought as a flash memory of Shockwave palming his array earlier flooded him and he stalled at the heat that pooled under his plating, for an instant worrying his synch time might have ran out, only to conclude it hadn’t, and that Shockwave was still sending enriched energon to his _kid_ , completely ignoring his surroundings.

  


Focus, Ratchet, he thought, looking down absently at the dark grey scratches in his own chest from when Microtron attacked.

  


The kid might be an apparently kind and sweet mechling who talked politely and didn’t bring much trouble in public, who also had a knack for reading and playing datapad games, but he certainly knew how to _snap_.

  


Not to mention Shockwave’s more than awful, nearly _criminal_ parenting and his reinforcement of the mechling’s mentally unhealthy _craving_ for processed energon.

  


Most definitely the combination of Shockwave’s absolute lack of morals and disregard to privacy and personal space, Megatron’s paranoia and strength and the dreaded battle program for _datacables_ from Soundwave, former Gladiator, made for a terrible combination the autobots would need to watch out for in the future.

  


Ratchet snorted: why he even remembered those morons??? If it depended on them (namely _Prowl_ ) he would by now be condemned into sensorineural stasis spark prison, and that was something he couldn’t let happen.

  


“Chief Medical Officer.”

  


Jolting up from his own thoughts, he left the still half-full cube on the desk, standing up as Shockwave finished closing his own ventral plates, turning to him and taking the _cortical psychic patch_ out.

  


“Open.”

  


Without further ado, he did, as Shockwave connected into his medical port and almost instantly finished syncing him, slightly before the time limit came close, as Ratchet observed almost _disappointed_ the bars shift up into full green.

  


As he spooled the medical cable back in, before Ratchet could completely close his own lateral access panels, Shockwave unceremoniously pushed him to the direction of the washracks.

  


“I want no evidence of Microtron having attacked you and to make sure all will be properly removed I am going to clean these scrapes out myself.”

  


_What?_

  


Getting thrown in, he observed helpless Shockwave unsubspace a new mesh and this time dutifully start cleaning the grey scrapes; both being nearly the same height, the scientist lowered his head and visor just a bit, the dark chevron filling Ratchet’s sight and bringing him memories of the day _Strongarm_ gave a very through _polish_ into his hands.

  


Stern, dutiful, stoic, passionless, and silent, this time, however: instead of taking his _time_ , Shockwave lavished just enough attention at each scrape to remove it, moving forward efficiently, to the point Ratchet felt disappointed.

  


So different from when he fragged the _fragger_ against this very wall.

  


As his memories mingled with those of Shockwave’s black hand cleaning his own windshield, Ratchet held his will to just flop down in defeat: the slave coding was settling in deeper day by day, making him actually feel _grateful_ for such an even tempered master.

  


Before he could think further, as soon as it begun, a still wet Ratchet stared with a painful tug in his spark as Shockwave finished, simply turning on his heels and walking out.

  


* * *

  


Walking out of the Ark and turning on her Honda Civic SI 2.5 car mode, dark pink shades gleaming in the night, Elita-1 rolled out of base into the roads, completely, wholly pissed.

  


She _could_ track and follow the Prime if she wanted, since they shared a sparkbond, but she knew better than to see with her own optics what she knew was probably happening.

  


Self-sacrificing, yes; masochistic, no.

  


Recklessly driving without her lights on, on the left side of the road, scaring the hell out of whoever was driving, uncaring to traffic laws and ignoring the accidents she was causing, she quickly took a shortcut, intent in getting to the well-known and not-at-all disguised site of the Decepticon Space Bridge.

  


Smirking to herself, she vaguely recalled Blaster was suing Ironhide for being a negligent co-creator.

  


She couldn’t help imagining the irony of it: wasn’t it just fitting that she also happened to have _bonding_ matters concerning the Prime?

  


Cackling as she forced a couple of cars out of the road into the corn-field, beeping her horn out loud and riding out, knowing she just passed by the general area where the Prime’s spark-frequency was located and with no intention of getting to him right now, she sped away, intent in reaching Shockwave’s Merry-go-round.

  


There was a Lawyercon out there on Cybertron and she currently very much wished to _hire_ him.

  


* * *

   


“Hire me?”

  


Ramhorn nodded. Technotor somersaulted, flaring his mirrors open for a second, instantly tucking them down.

  


“Ultra-gear! Usually it’s _me_ that ask people to a party, not the other way round!”

  


He sagged, sitting dejectedly on the ground, the cassettibot sitting by his side and briefly touching his head on his mirrored shoulder.

  


“But... where? I’m forbidden of setting up the Rec Room or the Lab ever again.”

  


Ramhorn shook his head and stomped once with his front paws on the ground.

  


“Who? Prowl, obviously. I only hope he returns with a smile on his plates!

  


Ramhorn squinted, raising an optic ridge.

  


“Don’t you know? Prowl and Jazz are in Prowl’s quarters working things out for hours now.”

  


Technotor nodded vigorously and bounced in place, thrumming, aching to globe-mode and begin playing techno trance.

  


“In thinking it was _I_ who told them to do it. I’m so proud!”

  


Ramhorn gaped.

  


Recalling it’s been ages Jazz had been trying to bond, court, and sometimes just plain annoy and frag Prowl (or be fragged, no one ever knows for sure, for not all mechs have a clear cut or obvious preference of interfacing role), not necessarily in this order, Ramhorn nodded solemnly at the prospect of things working between them, a slow gear rolling in his mind.

  


If this Technotor had such ability to _make_ mechs to do his bidding, he could certainly ask him to convince a certain engineer to speed up the _Triplechanger Cassette Project_ , pondered Ramhorn, a wide smile creeping up his plates.

  


* * *

 

  


A wide smile up in his plates, Brawl beamed.

  


“When do we go?”

  


Onslaught, nodding approvingly at the Spacebridge Portal swirling before them, depicting the ruins of the Hallowed Halls of the Church of Iacon, turned to his hopeful team member.

  


“As soon as our lovely con mech gets inside. I don’t trust Swindle any farther than _he_ can throw me.”

  


Swindle rolled his purple optics, subspace full of various forms of currency and energon, entering it, the map of the Cybertronian Sights in one hand, certain that once they went past the Halls and reached the Velocitronian Racing Grounds, he would find a certain red racer hanging around.

  


* * *

 

  


Hanging around, Optimus Prime and Ironhide had driven by the _tarmac_ roads as soon as they came out of hearing range from the screeching Elita, in expectant silence.

  


Having diverted from the main road into a corn field, as soon as they found themselves away from any artificial lights, they transformed and just plain engaged in a playful makeshift fight, literally rolling in the fields, the Prime letting himself be easily overpowered and pined against the ground.

  


Looking up at the starry sky and offlining his optics, battlemask open and feeling for the cool wind on his face, he recalled he had never had the time and opportunity to be reckless since he became The Prime, suddenly missing that last Senate Party as _Orion Pax_ where he was with _Ratchet_ and met a certain loud and boisterous _Shockwave_ who out of nothing mentioned he, _Orion_ , might be in for a surprise, before the upper class, powerful and rich science-caste mech disappeared from sight with a lowly, masked and visored purple and lime green _construction worker_ , winking and claiming he was about to have a great time.

  


Bitterly recalling how the disappeared Senator Shockwave returned, _Empurata-_ ed, _Shadowplayed_ and changed for the worse into a cold mockery of his previous self, and how he, Optimus, now knew the Primedom turned out to be the biggest _sham_ of Cybertron, the corrupted Priestdom manipulating the masses with Religion, having assigned him a _proper_ mate and made him forcibly leave his then-to-be-bonded Ratchet, just to keep him under control, he shook his head.

  


He couldn’t change the past, he couldn’t just plain decide the end of the War, but he certainly would try for a new future, starting on now.

  


Onlining his optics back, he now looked straight into Ironhide’s, who instantly angled and captured his lips on his own.

  


Life is _good_ and he’s certainly going to seize it.

  
  


* * *

 

  


Seizing the quiet of his communications office, symbiontless for the while, Soundwave pondered about what to do next.

  


Of course the tapedeck had had an awful inkling of _why_ Shockwave kept the autobot medic, and it wasn’t only for sparksitting. He didn’t need to read the medic’s mind to know it, and Megatron could see it as well.

 

There’s a great difference between _thinking_ and _knowing_.

  


The point is _Megatron_ should not be allowed to think so, much less _know_ , otherwise Soundwave would be in danger for not being the one to reveal Megatron about Shockwave’s _deception_.

  


Especially if the one to let his Lord know would be his worst _nemesis_ , Starscream.

  


If Megatron heard it first from the screamer instead of himself, and worse, decided scanning and looking for the _spike_ that imprinted Shockwave, Soundwave was certain he would lose his _first mate_ position.

  


That was the reason why Soundwave, good spy and communication’s master Soundwave, had just erased Starscream’s recent memories and thoughts processes concerning his evasive bondmate, having set him up and implanted fake memories on the second in command.

  


If Soundwave knew Starscream’s _outlier spark_ well enough though, it would be just a matter of time before the screamer recovered however, and got to the same _conclusions_ over and over again.

  


Even if Shockwave were careful enough to not misbehave in public, even if he erased Hook’s memory and databanks (and he did!), even if everything went perfect, the evidence of the spike-imprinted array would always be there to be discovered anytime.

  


Shaking his head, Soundwave, even wanting to turn a blind optic towards his unfaithful bonded and actually willing to _not_ know or confirm if the autobot slave did it or not, found out he could not feign ignorance about it anymore.

  


Before anyone else _found out_ , he would be forced to take matters in his own hands.


	35. A matter of Time

Taking matters in his own hands, the drone First currently dragged the Lawyercon to the dais.

  


“Hey! Release me!!”

  


Having just captured him at _Mighty Shockwave’s_ orders, First monotoned.

  


“Esteemed guests, Nautica, Firestar! Mighty Shockwave’s own Lawyercon, Judgelaw, will officiate the bonding now!”

  


He planted the Lawyercon right in the pulpit, folding arms at him, as Mighty Shockwave came by, thrumming with high-grade charge, smacking the Lawyercon up in his head with his gun arm and slurring.

  


“Sparkbonding ceremonies are important! I will allow you to use the spacebridge to go for the autobots, but first you have to bond them!”

  


Surrounded by all the three guests, the brides and the two drones, Judgelaw sagged. Mighty Shockwave approached his single optic at the lawyercon’s face, nodding solemnly.

  


“You _promised_.”

  


Roddy the Hot, Knock-Out, Reflector and the female autobots agreed, nodding between themselves at Mighty Shockwave’s words, clapping hands enthusiastically, the Lawyercon finally giving in.

  


* * *

  


Giving up on trying to leave quarters, Menace, buzzing dejectedly, asked herself _why the world hated her_ , the instant Ratbat approached, chirping and offering an energon chip.

  


Widening her compound optics and buzzing, having no outer intake and being unable to ingest anything except for the processed fuel Soundwave’s feeds them through the cassette slot’s connection, she shook her head.

  


Tilting his head, Ratbat shrugged, throwing the chip up and opening his mouth, capturing it and munching, chirping away back to his post, as Ravage shook his head.

  


Since Frenzy and Rumble started stealing high-grade, and actually got _poisoned_ once by a suspicious energon cube that Soundwave couldn’t prove, but was _sure_ came from one of the decepticon usurpers hanging around, the tapedeck made sure to completely eliminate the cassetticon’s ability to process any energon taken through their intakes.

  


As such, any ingested fuel was immediately circulating unprocessed, rendering the cassetticons prone to overcharging easily with the unprocessed high-grade Soundwave knew his twins often stole from other mecha, getting shut-down every single time they did it, leaving the tapedeck to deal with the unprocessed fuel that would invariably get rerouted to Soundwave’s waste tanks and properly recycled by the tapedeck, who discarded any tainted samples, only keeping untarnished energon, making sure to top his own fuels with it.

  


Ratbat, being the energon specialist, with no memories of his past, was the only one actually trusted to not ingest anything dangerous, due to his honed sensors, and was allowed to keep the ability to partially process ingested fuels.

  


Ravage snorted, recalling Ratbat wasn’t really Soundwave’s creation, aware that deep down the tapedeck might truly not care about his safety as much as he did to the others.

  


For a reformatted evil autobot slaver, Soundwave’s own previous _owner_ , Ratbat got it pretty easy: getting reformatted as a cassetticon, receiving fuel and protection from a full cohort and the most dangerous decepticon around…

  


No one in their right mind could say Soundwave wasn’t _merciful._

  


Most definitely, there were fates worse than being a cassette.

  


* * *

 

  


_There were fates worse than being a cassette._

  


Glaring down at the exploded, coughing, living self of Wheeljack, Ramhorn _sighed_ , as Technotor slowly patted him on his back.

  


_Being Wheeljack, for an example._

  


The scientist managed to get his _plot device III_ to explode once more and this time the cassettibot wasn’t even minimally surprised.

  


Observing with a squint Technotor kneel down and extend a hand to the coughing autobot, Ramhorn took the datapad with the _Triplechanger Cassette Project_ in his jaws and decided trying his own _paws_ at it, leaving the Lab before the hypnotic music started.

  


Maybe his fellow cassettes will help.

  


* * *

  


“Cassettes: will help.”

  


Ravage looked up from his recharging spot, unable to believe he _missed_ carrier’s spark frequency opening the door of their room and getting in, getting caught unaware.

  


Frenzy and Rumble, grumbling as they yawned, blinked their visors up to Soundwave, who knelt down to their face level and swept the room with his own sight, pinging each single of his creations.

  


Widening his optics at his own personal ping, Ravage barely avoided hissing.

  


“Ravage: exercise self-containment. Situation: sensitive. Cassettes: must work as coordinated team. Will follow Ravage’s command.”

  


Knowing he was the only one to receive the full info on Soundwave’s current _situation_ , squinting at his puzzled siblings, Ravage held an in-venting and sat on his back paws, waiting for his orders.

  


* * *

  


“Order! Order! I declare these two female autobots guilty!”

  


Judgelaw slurred and hit his hammer twice on the pulpit, as Roddy the Hot whispered to Knock-Out.

  


“I wasn’t aware Sparkbonding Ceremonies start like this.”

  


Nautica and Firestar shared an uncomfortable glance, the purplish submarine femme rolling her optics as the drone First finished whispering on the Lawyercon’s audials, Judgelaw clearing his voicebox and unsubspacing a huge black book.

  


“We are hereby reunited in these sacred Halls to celebrate the _conjunx endura_ Rite of Nautica and Firestar, already _conjunx amica_ according to the Caminian Customs……. where before Primus and this very audience they shall sparkmerge until both sparks will become like one.”

  


Firestar choked.

  


“What? Right before everyone?”

  


Squinting at her amica, Nautica shook her head, as First nudged the Lawyercon.

  


“You’re in the wrong page. This particular predicament is meant exclusively for the Prime.”

  


Judgelaw raised one optic ridge at the annoying know-it-all _protocol bot_ , finally turning to the mesh book and finding a few pages magnetised together, flaring his EM-field once and undoing the effect, finally returning to his speech.

  


“...well, according to the Holy Mesh Book, yes, sparkmerging before the audience is requirement only for the Prime. Now where was I… yes. Nautica. Firestar. Approach the pulpit and kneel.

  


They did, their shiny precious gemstone-filled mods glittering in the ill-lit Hall, as Reflector made sure to take many and many photos of them. Judgelaw, unsubspacing a sword, immediately rose it up above their heads, as both widened their optics and screamed.

  


* * *

 

  


Widening his optics and screaming, Starscream awoke from what looked like the outcome of a nuclear explosion in his own head, only with high-grade and no one less than _Hook_ dismayed by his side in what looked like the constructicon’s own quarters...

  


...in a compromising position, a very sprawled hand right over his exposed _port_ , index and middle finger dug inside and thumb holding right over the upper node, effectively locking the seeker in place.

  


Analysing the physical evidence and not knowing how the frag this even remotely happened, Starscream, memories in a haze, recalled vaguely having joined Hook’s meal, no, sloshing time time in his table at the mess hall and…

  


Fighting a bout of nausea at the prospect of having been fragged by a _construction worker_ , no matter he was a self-learned and self-proclaimed medic, skilled enough not to let patients die, but without finesse or a single official chevron, Starscream pondered about how to take the admittedly thick, smooth, _filling_ fingers out of his _lubricated_ port without awaking him.

  


By no means he wanted to keep them inside there, absolutely not: he was _not_ mad at being left out of his own room, neither he was mad at _Thundercracker_ deciding to dedicate his spike to Skywarp instead of himself.

  


By no means he actually wanted to _recall_ exactly how Hook’s hooking up with himself went.

  


Minutely squirming his _walls_ around the conveniently placed fingers, feeling for their baseline charge and suppressing a full-body shiver, Starscream actually felt heat creep up his plates, offlining his optics _._

  


It’s not like he could undo the damage by now, could he?

  


* * *

  


Could he undo the damage by now?

  


Not that Shockwave had suddenly developed a consciousness. He didn’t mind a single bit being _unfaithful_. He only cared about not being discovered, thus endangering his bond and his _position_.

  


A feeling of dread pulsing from his _personal parasite_ , Shockwave recalled how he had completely erased any and all documentary evidence of his bond unfaithfulness, the only memories of the event remaining both in his own and the medic’s minds, both mind-reading-proofed by his perfect firewalls, and actually droned to his own chest.

  


“You are not being conductive to me finding a logical solution. Cease sending feelings. They are distracting.”

  


As the _decepticon matrix_ actually managed to _whine_ and shut up, Shockwave stared up to the ceiling, returning to his trail of thought as he almost unconsciously lead a hand down his plating and between his thighs, _remembering_.

  


The only _hard_ evidence he had was the very physical imprint of the medic’s _equipment_ into his unsealed autobot port.

  


Hindsight is 20/20, and for a brief second regretting getting carried away by his own _charge_ , and pondering it might have been better to just have opened the already unsealed _purple_ port to the Chief Medical Officer, which would have left zero evidence of his tryst once properly cleaned up, Shockwave was currently unable to go into recharge, imagining what would happen _when_ (not _if!_ ) he were found out.

  


Ignoring the sudden _urge_ the _D_ _ecepticon_ _M_ _atrix_ sent him of just plain _fleeing_ with both his creation and the Chief Medical Officer out and away from the decepticon base, forever, Shockwave finally came upon the logical solution.

  


Having firmly decided about surgically excising the autobot panel out and melting it, before it was too late and _his bondmates_ discovered everything, he turned on his side to disconnect the _cortical psychic patch_ from his creation, finally standing up and clipping his helicopter blades onto the rotor in his back as he walked out of the room, with a pair of red optics, white fangs and silent steps following him all along.

  


* * *

 

 

All along, followed by Steeljaw, Ramhorn took the blueprints to their own room, dropping the datapad on the ground as the lion-based felinoid pawed it in curiosity, raising inquisitive optics at his sibling.

  


Nodding and stomping on the ground once, Ramhorn actually tried turning the datapad on with his large front feet to no avail, only for him to sag as Steeljaw touched the screen with his significantly smaller front paws, turning it on and manipulating the screen until he found what Ramhorn was trying to show.

  


No way he would help in something like _that._ Was Ramhorn really that intent in becoming a _scientist_ afterall? To the point of changing his own _body_? I mean, who needed _hands_ anyway?

  


Squinting, Ramhorn scowled at his sibling. He wanted more in life than being forever considered dumb cannon fodder. Threatening the felinoid with a swipe of his horn, the rhino captured the datapad back into his mouth-plates and stomped out.

  


* * *

 

  


Stomping out of the room, before _necessarily_ getting into the lab and actually having the chance of performing the excision of his imprinted autobot array, Shockwave was ambushed by symbionts, who abandoning discretion at Ravage’s command, swarmed him from all sides.

  


Unwilling to harm them for now, knowing the consequences to himself if he did, Shockwave tried resorting to logic, as he pushed them away and walked backwards against his lab’s door, opening it and locking himself inside, punching his biohazard code.

  


Almost sagging, once more feeling the _dread_ from the decepticon matrix, he turned on his back to get immediately back-handed by no one less than Soundwave.

  


Getting thrown on his shelves with Soundwave’s motion, Shockwave hit them fully sprawled, every single glassware including Ratchet’s sample vial falling over his head, cracked glass and semi-gelled transfluid entering his seams and spreading on his plates, the noise grating on his nerves at each single motion.

  


Shockwave, dazed, shook his head, trying to stand up and giving up once the reproachful glare of his bonded descended on him.

  


“Shockwave: has anything to _confess_?”

  


Attempting to wipe the _residues_ out of his visor, Shockwave stared up, completely unfazed and unsurprised.

  


“I am positive you, as the master of the Spy-Net, and considering the cassetticons mobbing me outside, already knows, and it would not be logical of me to deny.”

  


And opened wide his port-only panel.

  


“I invite you to meet my port-only array. It is already imprinted by the Chief Medical Officer, but I assure you it is medically clean and ready to be used.”

  


Soundwave, glaring down sternly, shook his head while glancing at the blue folded port.

  


“Soundwave: not _interested_.”

  


Actually staring down and glancing at the very blue anterior node and folds, Shockwave droned.

  


“Are you entirely sure? It is much more sensitive than my original one and perhaps this time I might feel the feelers prodding it from inside. Who knows how I might react. I might not even need to pretend _._ ”

  


Unable not to recall the times when he tentacle-fragged both Shockwave and his own port back on Cybertron, instant heat creeping up his plates, Soundwave shook his head, coming back to reality as he pointed to the heliformer.

  


“Shockwave: knows the Rules. Will obey.”

  


Dipping his head in a respectful nod, Shockwave knew he _lost_ when the tapedeck decided calling his authority as First Mate.

  


“Soundwave: orders Shockwave to close plates now.”

  


Shockwave, still on the ground with all the muck covering his plates, closed his plates and stared up, as the tapedeck offered a hand for him to stand up.

  


“Soundwave: very reasonable mech. Can understand _lust_. Can perfectly understand Shockwave.”

  


Taking the proffered hand, Shockwave was lifted up, the tapedeck unsubspacing a mesh and handing it to the scientist, who caught it and started cleaning his visor and chestplates.

  


“Shockwave: could have _asked_ for permission for bondmates. Soundwave certainly would _persuade_ Lord Megatron.”

  


Soundwave truly didn’t mind Shockwave’s slip; having had once _desired_ a mech out of his official bond, and having been granted his wish by Lord Megatron himself when they trinebonded the scientist, Soundwave ultimately understood.

  


“Medic: under influence of slave code. Not punishable for acting on pre-programmed impulses. Sole responsible for mess: Shockwave.”

  


Shockwave nodded, logically agreeing as he subspaced the dirty mesh back, looking slightly more respectable now, without all the transfluid sticking in his most visible seams.

  


“It was Starscream then.”

  


Soundwave tilted his head.

  


“Soundwave: optics and audials of the Nemesis. Perfectly capable of discovering on his own. Had inferred situation long before. However: Starscream was about to reveal possibility to Lord Megatron, who would not be so understanding.”

  


Shockwave dipped his head in assent.

  


“You might allow me to slip under the radar, but never if it meant Starscream, the only mech capable of stealing your _position,_ would gain any advantage with our _Lord_. You must always be the _first_. I congratulate your logic and ability to keep yourself in _power_ , Soundwave.”

  


Soundwave tilted his head to the left then.

  


“Soundwave: has no wish to _suffer_ from rupture of sparkbond with the termination of Shockwave’s spark. Lord Megatron: does not care that much for _pain_ when it means revenge. Would offline Shockwave out of spite and with cruelty despite the bond.”

  


Shockwave nodded once more. He knew.

  


“So I presume you have not ambushed me to offline me, but you can also not offer me any more protection than a warning, out of loyalty.”

  


Soundwave then turned his visor to Shockwave, suddenly grappling him up with a datacable and finally punching him once with his right hand right in the visor, a myriad of cracks forming in its middle.

  


“Shockwave: does not understand _loyalty_!”

  


And threw him on a heap on the ground against the broken glassware, again, the heliformer now partially blinded behind the cracks in the visor, slowly standing up.

  


“Shockwave: must abide by the Rules. Will undergo self-imposed _exile_.”

  


The heliformer slowly stood up, finally kneeling over his right knee, keeping his head protocol-low.

  


“Microtron: not guilty of Shockwave’s behaviour. Lord Megatron’s newspark: to all effects innocent. Soundwave: will assume care of Microtron as if mine.”

  


Shockwave stalled minutely then.

  


“Microtron requires daily infusion of _my_ processed energon. It is only logical that we are not separated.”

  


Soundwave rested a hand in his tapedeck door then.

  


“Soundwave: capable of fully sustaining cohort of up to twelve creations at the same time daily for all needed fuel. Entirely capable of supplying Microtron with physiological fuel needs. Promises to be _caring_ carrier-host.”

  


Shockwave should have known it would come to this: Soundwave, as obsessed over small, cradly things as he was, had a _tendency_ to collect stray, lonely, potentially needy newsparks, especially one prone to be swayed by the promise of _permanent_ access to processed energon.

  


Logically, Shockwave knew Microtron, under Soundwave’s rule, would be safe from direct harm.

  


The only problem in that is, for this, Microtron would need to be reframed as cassetticon, and being reframed meant transfer of spark to a smaller sparkchamber, meaning full reset of spark and erasing of Microtron’s _self_ , which basically would be his _demise_ and the rebirth of his _spark_ as a blank slate and a wholly new mech.

  


“I cannot allow you to repurpose my creation like you did to Ratbat.”

  


Turning slowly towards Shockwave, Soundwave lowered his face down.

  


“Soundwave: surprised. Shockwave: suddenly _caring_??”

  


Three full seconds passed before Shockwave, EM-field flat - to all effects unpredictable, in a quick move removed one blade from up the rotor hub above his right shoulderblade and rotated down on his knee, whacking Soundwave in the sides of his face, jumping backwards and barely avoiding a navy blue datacable that attempted to grapple him.

  


EM-field flaring menacingly wide, Soundwave assumed fight stance, four cables flailing behind his back as Shockwave returned the blade to its clip, this time arming himself with the chain and hook.


	36. Hooked up

Hook awoke chained to his own berth by his feet and arms, absolutely no side effects from his regular _high-grade_ smashing, finding himself sprawled on his back like a dish to be savoured, smirking.

 

“Scrapper, kinky fragger. I’m _yours_. You know you just need to _ask_.”

 

“Good to know!”

 

Stalling at the grating screech, Hook squinted and stared at his left, only to find Starscream lounging like he belonged there.

 

“What the frag are you doing in my room?? How did you find these cuffs?” he stared around the room, finally screaming “Scrapper!!!”

 

Starscream, having overloaded twice just trying to get Hook’s hand from the pinching position at his node and valve, recalling the fact his two trine members had locked him out of the room, merely smirked and claimed Hook’s mouth-plates by biting his lower lip and _sucking_ , shutting up the medic and deciding to make up for his lost time.

 

* * *

 

Recalling this time he was _lost_ against a skilled gladiator, knowing he couldn’t escape the Lab by the outer door, Shockwave did the logical thing, stepping back and pretending to want to throw the hook, instead ramming against the wall separating the constructicon’s bay from the ill-built lab.

 

Soundwave, incredulous, watched the wall collapse in a cloud of dust, attempting to see what was happening, as Shockwave ran away between the slabs colliding against them as Scrapper screeched that he would ruin their project, and the tapedeck, guided by sound alone, sent datacable after datacable after the sounds, blurting static in anger and warning his creations for them to capture Shockwave in case he made his way out of the constructicon’s _medbay_.

 

Before the dust went down, Shockwave managed to collide against Bonecrusher, who fell over the half-built Yellow Submarine, crashing it right over Mixmaster and raising even more dust, as Shockwave disentangled from the mess and captured Longhaul by his left arm on his way out of the lab.

 

Before the constructicon could protest, he was thrown and slammed at the door like a battering ram as it splintered in pieces and he rolled out right like a bowling ball over Soundwave’s twins, who were waiting at the door ready to capture the heliformer, as Shockwave stepped over their heads and jumped, helicopter-moding in the air, actually hitting Lazerbeak and Buzzsaw, slamming them away into the walls with his rotating hub blades, finally activating his comms and trying to reach Ratchet, sending him a single, urgent _ping_.

 

* * *

 

 

Sending an urgent ping, Elita-1 kept running recklessly by the tarmac, impatient with the time it takes to travel to the Space Bridge Site and wondering if it wouldn’t be better to take a shortcut through the wilderness instead.

 

Afterall, all there was, is desert out there.

 

What could possibly go wrong??

 

* * *

 

_What could have possibly gone wrong?_

 

Just awoken with a very urgent _ping_ from his master, Ratchet subspaced every piece of the spark-condenser project and the outer sparkchamber on Shockwave’s desk, his half full energon cube and the other four nearly empty ones hanging around the place, and took the recharging Microtron in arms, running away from the room and following Shockwave’s coordinates, ambulance-moding with the mechling fitting inside his cargo compartment along with the medical instruments, resisting the temptation to wail his sirens and just rolling down and below in the hull.

 

Suddenly _looking_ _up_ in ambulance mode as he heard the sound of rotor blades, Ratchet, dividing space on the corridors with his master hovering above him, dutifully followed in silence, until both arrived at the Nemesis’ escape pods.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Ignoring the ambulance besides him, Shockwave walked before every single pod, finding out his own pod demolished to a pulp by what suspiciously looked like the handiwork of Rumble’s pile-driver arms.

 

 _Logically_ , pondered Shockwave, knowing his bondmate would have anticipated his move and certainly ordered his twins to have removed his easy way out of the underbase.

 

Slowly turning towards the other remaining pods, however, Shockwave dipped his head in a nod, taking a logical decision, very aware that they were running out of _time_.

 

* * *

 

Running out of time, Swindle now charted Knock-Out’s spark frequency with a highly illegal, ready to install, tracking mod he owned in stock.

 

“As you can see in this fine device, that costs only a thousand _Shanix_ , all I need is to insert the target’s spark-frequency and _voi_ _-_ _l_ _á_ , here he comes!”

 

He beamed, showing Onslaught his tracking device, as Onslaught stared, vaguely uninterested, and Brawl pointed at the screen.

 

“Why is it moving? Is this supposed to be moving?”

 

“Must be broken.” Vortex huffed “Swindle’s trying to sell us his broken slag. Again.”

 

Squinting, Onslaught glared down at Swindle, as the salesmech raised his hands up in self-defence.

 

“Ok, I’m truly trying to sell it but I swear it’s not broken!”

 

Onslaught snorted, then, and finally, pointedly, repeatedly, poked a huge, heavy fingertip at the tracking device’s screen, asking.

 

“Then why is it _moving_?”

 

As soon as the last word left his mouthplates, the four combaticons were run over by two heavily modded, glowing, running, screeching, root-moded, _bridal_ female autobots, followed immediately by the vehicle-moded Hot-Rod and Knock-Out, and Swindle meekly contemplated the spark-frequency of Knock-Out leaving site, as Onslaught growled and truck-moded, screaming.

 

“He’s going away! Combaticons, after him!”

 

As Brawl promptly obeyed and Vortex cackled, helicopter-moding and wildly manoeuvring away, Swindle, furious, screeched to the distance.

 

“I told you it was working, but did you believe me??? Noooo!!!”

 

Dejected, he sat on the ground: just because he was a _con_ ‘con, it didn’t have to mean every single word he said was necessarily _fake_ , right?

 

* * *

 

 

 _Faking_ Soundwave’s spark frequency right at the tapedeck’s own escape pod, Shockwave, observing its sliding glass door open, unceremoniously shoved the vehicle-moded ambulance in, as Ratchet barely avoided crushing and mowing Microtron into his own engines while transforming to root mode.

 

“Shockwave, be careful!”

 

Once more flaring his bonded’s spark-frequency at the controls, uncaring to the warning, Shockwave tried to come inside, hitting his open rotor blades at the doors, actually _growling_ and hastily removing the paddles out of his back, just throwing them for Ratchet to hold, then immediately lunged in with all the finesse only a stampede of an african water buffaloes could muster.

 

“Primus, Shockwave, what happened???”

 

Before he could answer the medic though, a navy blue datacable was jolted inside the pod and circled around his creation’s neck, attempting to pull Microtron off Ratchet’s arms.

 

EM-field actually flaring wide, visor glowing dark blue with pinkish hues coming through the cracks, Shockwave immediately gripped and moved the pod’s lock lever down, observing with a detached glare the doors quickly and cleanly amputate the datacable, the very instant Ratbat arrived, screeching and braking before he collided against the door, and a buzzing little bee fully crashed against the sliding glass, buzzing dejectedly as she slipped down.

 

Soundwave, torn between attacking his unfaithful bonded and currently comforting his clumsy creation, unbelieving his optics, in pain, blurted an undignified electrical noise and recalled the permanently injured _stump_ of his now effectively _lost_ cable into his back, fizzling static to all directions, as he crouched down and cradled Menace, forcing her into tape mode and inside slot.

 

 _Furious_ , he then quickly latched his three remaining datacables into the computer, as the cut-off piece danced and jumped alone on the ground inside the pod, getting finally purposefully crushed under Shockwave’s heavy back rotor feet.

 

Shifting his glare between Soundwave, latched to the computer system and beginning to _hack_ his way in into his own pod, and Shockwave, currently battling with the full absence of keyboards, touchscreens or something as basic as a screen, repeatedly  _punched_ the pod until it finally whirred to life and activated self-launching safety protocols, as Ratchet firmly held his charge against his chest, spark painfully tugging moments before the pod was waterproof- _sealed_ , offlining his optics, the escape vessel getting instantly launched into the ocean, only the crimson glower of Soundwave’s visor dying in the distance as the pod bubbled away, far and wide in the dark.


	37. Optics wide shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave being an awful parent, and Soundwave, a manipulative glitch.

Optic cycled wide in the dark, coming out of recharge, Microtron blinked twice.

  


“Microtron. Rise up. I require assistance.”

  


Chirping, he climbed out of Ratchet’s arms and through two datacables moved towards Shockwave’s side, glancing up at him.

  


“Does it involve processed energon??”

  


He wriggled the feelers of a single datacable (undulating before Shockwave’s broken visor), as Ratchet flushed hard trying not to recall _master_ wriggling his fingers before holding his _spike_ the fatidic day he was forced to _donate_ a sample to science.

  


“It might.”

  


Microtron beamed and nearly clicked his claws together as Shockwave pointed to a jacking point in the pod.

  


“Notice the absence of screens, regular panelling and something as basic as keyboards or touchscreens. This is Soundwave’s escape pod, this particular _jack_ meant to be filled by a _datacable_. It’s the only way to steer the pod and guide us out of the bottom of the sea. Fortunately for us, thanks to Mixmaster, you share his CNA. Plug in, access the main control program and follow my verbal instructions on how to reach the coordinate system with written command lines for us to get to shore. Only then, when safely away from home, and properly fuelled, I might be able to get you some of your _special_ _energon_.”

  


He tilted his head, staring meekly at the jack, trying to digest all the info, then turned his optic to the grey datacable whose feelers he had just wriggled, sagging visibly.

  


“Safely _away_ from home?”

  


Shockwave, ever patient, spoke.

  


“We were in danger in the underwater base and it cannot be _home_ anymore. Bonded Soundwave, all cassetticons, and Sire Lord Megatron are no longer trusted mecha in your list. Do you copy?”

  


Microtron cycled his optic wide.

  


“But… don’t they _love_ me anymore?”

  


Ratchet pursed his lips, spark tugging painfully in his chestplates and actually stalling, as unable to grasp the concept, Shockwave just continued to drone.

  


“Soundwave intends to _reframe_ you as a cassetticon, and knowing him as I do, our Lord Megatron will certainly agree to _this_.”

  


* * *

  


“Did I agree to _this_?”

  


Soundwave, hurting from the cut off datacable and doing his best to mask his EM-field to his _lord_ , having left the Constructicons with express orders for them to not leave their bay until they had Megatron’s direct _command_ , nodded.

 

“Shockwave: expressed wish to go to Cybertron with Microtron and autobot slave for scientific purposes, departing this afternoon and returning his _lab_ to the Constructicons. Lord Megatron: agreed with bonded’s _logic_ and authorised leave.”

  


He handed him an official-looking datapad with Megatron’s own signature in it, and the corresponding authorisation, as Megatron huffed.

  


“My Lord: does not _remember_?”

  


Megatron, sitting on his _command chair_ , shifted back to the datapad Shockwave _wrote_ and also properly signed his requested leave in, explaining the _logical_ reasons for his return to their home planet, finally growling and throwing it away into the ground, cracking it’s screen _._

  


Soundwave on his side, made sure to keep projecting his neutral, flat and calm EM-field, continuously deploying his telepathic, surreptitious, wireless _suggestions_ directly on Megatron’s spark and upper processors.

  


Having faked the datapad and having implanted fake, hazy memories on Lord Megatron concerning Shockwave’s sudden departure, Soundwave finally walked to the datapad, taking it in hands and offering it back to Megatron with a dip in his head.

  


“Soundwave: understands Lord Megatron. Taking Microtron away: newspark receives daily processed energon from carrier and they are supposed to keep close. Autobot slave taken for sparksitting and lab assistance in what concerns removal of _decepticon matrix_.”

  


Megatron, refusing to acknowledge the broken datapad, recalling how he indeed ordered Shockwave to _solve the problem he himself created_ , shook his head as he pondered about this authorisation he signed and on how Shockwave didn’t even bother to come in person to speak.

  


He did recall _something_ about it, but it wasn’t a clear memory, and he lead his right hand to his forehead, rubbing against it, as Soundwave subspaced the broken datapad.

  


“This war is clearly taking its toll on me. I must be getting _old_.”

  


At that Soundwave came closer, left hand lazily touching Megatron’s own left hand, walking in a circle around the throne and placing himself on its back as his fingertips traced the scratched, battered metal surface up, palm cupping his left shoulder as the tapedeck’s right hand also caught on his _lord’s_ right shoulder and he finally touched the back of Megatron’s head with his own forehead, monotoning.

  


“Lord Megatron: not to blame. Leading the whole faction and the _cause_ : tiresome task. Soundwave: will do everything possible to _ease_ it up.”

  


Clicking his battlemask open to the sides, face hiding against the back of Megatron’s neck, Soundwave slowly, passionately kissed him, visor going off and hands kneading on his shoulders.

  


As the tyrant dipped his head down, mind foggy and exposing his neck further and, EM-field rolling warm and open at the tapedeck’s touch, Megatron adjusted himself on a sprawled position, back against the seat, taking a deep in-vent and pondering that Soundwave certainly knew how to properly make up for Shockwave’s _disregard_.

  


* * *

  


Shockwave, disregarding the incredulous glare that Microtron managed to pass across with his widening optic, stared unaffected as the mechling managed to look _hurt_ , musing over what _carrier_ just told, finally fully registering it, optic cycling very wide in pure indignation.

  


“Soundwave wants to to turn me into a _tape_???”

  


Shockwave nodded.

  


“Basically, yes, Soundwave wants you for his _cohort_.”

  


Shockwave dipped his head down and actually touched his cracked visor against the decepticon _brand_ on the left side of his camera-head.

  


“Logically, I will not allow you to be taken away. You are _mine._ ”

  


If Shockwave’s grip on his creation became stronger for a microsecond, the scientist would never admit: Microtron, suddenly imagining himself turned into a tape-changing _notebook_ , clenched his claws in anger, flailing a single datacable out of his back and filling the jacking slot, feelers spreading out inside and touching the connection spots.

  


Unable to suppress a _cackle_ , he cycled the objective lens of his giant optic closed, effectively blinding him to outside stimuli, EM-field wobbling as his HUD merged with the pod’s systems, depicting a series of floating screens, Shockwave’s voice echoing as if coming from everywhere, telling him to be ready for his incoming _instructions._

  


* * *

  


“Instructions: incoming. Scrapper: ready?”

  


Having left Lord Megatron a literal puddle of _relaxation_ by sending subsonic waves through his hands as he massaged his bonded’s shoulders, Soundwave made sure the tyrant was indeed in deep defrag state before letting Laserbeak on _guard duty_ : the tapedeck was physically damaged from Shockwave’s _stunt_ and would undeniably require at least one patch.

  


Scrapper, sighing as he manipulated the damaged datacable the tapedeck flailed out, opening his lateral dataport to the TIC, shook his head.

  


“I’m as much a _nurse_ as Hook is a chevroned _medic_ , as I’m certain you know already.”

  


Soundwave nodded, very aware of Hook’s self-taught skills, and his attempt of making Scrapper his nurse by teaching him the few things he learned.

  


“I mean, this datacable is _complex_. It’s mechano-biological, has multiple functions, and is directly connected to your neural net. I don’t think I’m capable of fixing it, even with instructions.”

  


Having left Hook in a _sticky_ situation with Starscream, Soundwave had no option but to _let_ himself be fixed by a very unwilling Scrapper, who still had no idea about what the TIC did to his official sparkbonded gestaltmate, currently attributing his feelings of dread, _heat_ and _guilt_ to the failed persecution they just underwent after Shockwave’s fleeing self, under a set of circumstances he felt better not to pry about.

  


Whatever Shockwave did to deserve Soundwave’s wrath, Scrapper wanted to be no part of it, and as such, decided he had no option but to work on the third in command, who had just had one of his four datacables messily amputated.

  


Shook back from his thoughts, Scrapper continued.

  


“However.” he analysed the datacable’s blueprints, just sent to his systems via hardline by Soundwave himself “I might be able to re-implant it if you have it. Where did you say the original datacable is anyway?”

  


Recalling how Shockwave crushed it beneath his back-rotor feet, Soundwave shook his head.

  


“Datacable: _lost_. Scrapper: skilled enough to just finish _amputat_ _ing_ the damaged structure and reassigning Soundwave’s neural net with three, instead of four datacables.”

  


Sighing as he stared at the 3D structure and the commands on how to shut down each neural pathway required to effectively null the sawed off structure off the tapedeck’s systems, Scrapper, not owning a split HUD or advanced medical sensors, turned the transmission of data off and shook his head, finally staring at Soundwave again.

  


“Hook’s able to do it in a click, and with enough time he might even be able to replicate a partially functional datacable. Why do you insist on me just finishing to amputate it? Why can’t I just summon him?”

  


Soundwave, unwilling to have to mess up with Hook _right now_ , aware neither Starscream or the constructicon left quarters, merely stared at the architect, proffering a half-lie.

  


“Soundwave: unable to wait: in pain. Trusts Scrapper’s basic skills. Promises to be _good_ patient.”

  


He tilted his head to the right, as Scrapper, suddenly feeling _exhausted_ , sighed.

  


* * *

  


Exhausted, Hook sighed, feeling irremediably guilty as the screeching harpy currently doze sprawled over his berth-bound frame.

  


No matter he had told Starscream earlier in his overcharged slur that he wouldn’t have minded _taking_ Shockwave’s autobot seal; it was more wilful, hypothetical bragging than truly going to do it. He was bonded and _sparkbonded_ to his gestalt, most specifically to Scrapper, and wouldn’t have done anything without _informing_ him, at least.

  


Not that he had been a very active participant, he snorted as he recalled how Starscream literally did _everything_ he wanted, proving his mouth served for more than screeching and complaining, as with a will of his own his spike merely physiologically corresponded.

  


That was it, physiological reactions. Nothing to do with the seeker’s lower _furnace_ burning around it as Starscream rode him to oblivion, coaxing at least three overloads off the constructicon.

  


Shuddering and immediately recalling his bonded _Scrapper_ and how he would react once he knew – and he would know – he had no option but running to Soundwave to request his memories erased.

  


He would be _owning_ the tapedeck afterwards, but it would still be better than having _memories_ resurfacing every single time Starscream spoke or screeched or even remotely showed up.

  


* * *

 

  


Showing up in the command room, Ramhorn, _Triplechanger Casse_ _t_ _te Project_ in mouthpiece, futilely searched for a _good soul_ willing to help him out.

  


He tried for his siblings: Rewind, currently obsessed with historical facts and compiling a documentary on the Scientists of the Golden Age, was nowhere to be found; Eject, manning the security cameras in the absence of Red Alert (rumoured to have been taken away from the _party_ , glitched, by Inferno), couldn’t come by either.

  


If only Perceptor hadn’t been busy with Blaster, on that mysterious errand, the project might have been done by now.

  


Sagging, he sat on his heavy hindquarters, hoping Technotor would soon prove himself useful and make Wheeljack amenable to his request, finishing that fragging project soon.

  


No matter Wheeljack told him it was a very complex modification and that it might take years to mechanically complete: Ramhorn wasn’t the most patient of the mechs, much less the brightest, and for him, if the project wasn’t already done, it was because everyone was slacking off, obviously.

  


As a slow gear rolled up on his processors, Ramhorn stared at a datapad-sized slot on Teletraan, _pondering_.

  


It couldn’t hurt to give it a try. Speed-crashing the _thing_ would certainly bring forth a solution! What kind of Scientist he hoped to be, if he wasn’t willing to take the risk?

  


* * *

 

  


“I am willing to take the risk. Run it.”

  


Microtron nodded, running the programmed coordinates, methodically keying every number Shockwave slowly had spelled: basically, if they didn’t reach shore in the next 24 hours, they would literally offline without energy under the sea, and as far as he understood, that would mean he would never taste carrier’s energon again.

  


As soon as the pod started moving, rotating around its axis, whirring its engines and taking a definite direction, he pulled his datacable out of slot, optic lens cycling open and suppressing a cackle as Shockwave nodded, approvingly.

  


“I see I was correct in sending you to Soundwave to start learning to use your cables. For that you do deserve a small treat.”

  


Picking then Soundwave’s amputated, smashed datacable from the ground, nodding approvingly at the leftover gelled energon inside, he handed it to his creation, who instantly beamed and wasted no time at literally siphoning every single energon _molecule_ from the cable, leaving it dry and clean, pinkish hues travelling up the grey tentacle as Microtron’s single optic gleamed once the fuel got into his systems.

  


Ratchet, shaking his head but unable to do anything about this terrible _habit_ , slightly nauseous with the sudden motion of the pod, optics dim, rested against the outer wall of the escape pod, slowly sliding down until he sat on his own pedes, observing with the corner of his optics Microtron nest himself against Shockwave’s ample _bosom_ , clicking softly and slowly drifting into spontaneous recharge, dutifully ignored in his need for touch from the scientist’s part.

  


“You know, after this _great_ meal, you could at least pet him. Like a nice carrier would.”

  


Shockwave, unaffected, immobile, droned.

  


“Like a nice, illogical and wasteful carrier would. After the stunt of flaring my bonded’s spark frequency _twice_ , I am currently running at 33% fuel levels and I shall not waste more energy than required until we reach shore. Petting or otherwise moving without purpose is not logical under the current circumstances. Mandatory recharge for a few hours and basic energy and heat conservation protocols will do immense good to our meagre reserves and I advise that you undergo it as well.”

  


Releasing his struts with a hydraulic hiss, sitting heavily on his own pedes and doing his best not to crush his creation, Shockwave leaned against Microtron and offlined all his unneeded biolights and the cracked battlemask, eerie silence and immobility taking place, as Ratchet, snorting at the almost sweet sight, shrugged, shifting closer and resting his frame against his _master’s_ , offlining his optics and biolights as well: that was an order he absolutely wouldn’t mind to obey.


	38. Remind, remind me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream awakes, Ramhorn makes a deal, and Ratchet suffers.

Absolutely not _minding_ to obey, Scavenger received and dutifully ignored the direct orders from Scrapper to return to the underbase.

 

As far as he understood, Commander Shockwave had _fled_ away with his creation and the autobot slave that suspiciously looked like _Ratchet_ , and he was supposed to return and regroup with his gestaltmates, for no one less than _Soundwave_ ordered all the constructicons _locked_ in their bay until Megatron himself ordered them out.

 

Scavenger might be slow and dim-witted, but it didn’t take much cogs to understand that if Shockwave was _wanted_ , something grave had happened, and he couldn’t simply return to his gestaltmates!

 

Detouring in an under-tunnel, he puffed up his plates as his drill bore through the terrain: most probably his favourite _commander_ would be needing help.

 

* * *

 

“Are you needing help?”

 

Ramhorn, jumping up and down with the datapad in his mouth, unable to reach the datapad-sized slot _, stopped_ , shaking his head: of course not. Just a few more trials and he was going to reach it.

 

Smirking, _Astrotrain_ , arms folded, lounging against the wall, just counted to three, until Ramhorn _stalled_.

 

Turning on his hindlegs slowly, Ramhorn looked up the towering decepticon, for a second asking himself how the slag the shuttle came in, squinting as he found the shuttle-sized hole at the wall, from where Blast-Off and Skyfire left, earlier.

 

Quickly unsubspacing his hipside guns and aiming them up, never releasing the datapad, Ramhorn gave his most menacing glare, as Astrotrain just chuckled.

 

“Kid. If I wanted to off you, I’d have done it already.”

 

Inquisitive, Ramhorn raised an optic ridge, as Astrotrain crouched down.

 

“Now. What’s it you were trying to insert there?”

 

Ramhorn crouched protectively at the datapad, to no use, as Astrotrain ignored his efforts and picked it in his right hand, unsubspacing a pair of glasses with his left hand and focusing on the screen.

 

“Triplechanger Cassette!” he nodded, smirking yet resigned, glasses cautiously balanced on the tip of his nose “Now I know _why_ Skyfire interfaced me: he stole my very own data.” he turned a few pages on-screen “Did Wheeljack come across the formulae and mechanical blueprints? What are you, wanting to _explode_?”

 

As Astrotrain read through the _project_ , and Ramhorn sagged, the shuttle finally delivered him the datapad back, subspacing his pair of glasses back, feeling very amused.

 

“I wouldn’t try my hand at becoming a triplechanger _this_ way. I’m the only _natural_ triplechanger. Blitzwing and his faulty triple-changing- _personality_ were the result of Shockwave’s attempt to mechanically imitate me. You can see how well that went. Do you want to know the only true way to get another mech’s abilities?”

 

Blinking and nodding, recalling Blitzwing’s insanity bouts, Ramhorn now sat on his hindlegs, listening.

 

“Gotta incorporate my own _CNA_ on yours for that. I can get you _my own_ sample. For a _price._ ”

 

* * *

 

“For a price? For a _price???_ ”

 

First, the drone, literally glitched his screen face, screeching and repeatedly hitting Swindle on his head with his two clawed arms.

 

“How dare you! Who do you think you are to just _charge_ for the use of Mighty Shockwave’s own _Spacebridge_?”

 

Swindle, huddling and protecting himself against the insane drone, raising both hands up in defeat, waited for him to calm down, and finally smirked, extending his right hand ahead.

 

“Better. Now! I’m Swindle, independent business entrepreneur, currently owning the only known _remote control_ for the Spacebridge! But don’t you worry, it’s a really affordable price! I’m your best bet if you want to get to your tower really fast! So, do you want me to open it or...”

 

Suddenly mute and turning white in fear, Swindle nearly ran away as soon as the faceplates of _Mighty Shockwave_ entered his view, the purple cyclops stomping his heavy frame closer, single optic shining and focusing on his face.

 

_Wait._

 

_Hadn’t Shockwave changed shells to that dreaded white helicopter and was currently living on Earth with the Decepticons? When did he come back?_

 

“What are you talking about.” Mighty Shockwave interrupted Swindle’s thoughts and lowered to his level, _slurring_ “Were you the responsible for the brides fleeing?”

 

“...brides? Don’t you mean _bridge_?”

 

As Mighty Shockwave _glared_ at Swindle, the con mech, unbelieving, glared back wide-opticed at the towering cyclops, who spoke.

 

“Yes, _brides_. We were witnessing an official _Sparkbonding_ ceremony.” he nodded solemnly, then immediately _hiccuped_ “Right, First?”

 

The drone First rolled between both, focusing on the con mech.

 

“Or something like it.” he recalled how the Lawyercon was about to _knight_ the two brides with the ceremonial sword, when they fled in terror. “Anyway. You were saying you’d open up the _bridge._ Give me the controls now. They rightfully belong to my _Master_.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Master_?”

 

Onlining his visor, Shockwave slowly moved his head towards the source of warmth on his back.

 

“Why are you not conserving energy, Chief Medical Officer?”

 

Ratchet, already awake, comfortably sprawled against Shockwave’s paddle-less rotor hub and basking in the warmth, face pressing against the back of his helm, whispered.

 

“Because the escape pod stopped moving and we seem to have reached shore.”

 

The spheric pod floated on the surface of the sea, the waves hitting the sliding glass door, as Shockwave suddenly stood up, literally shaking Microtron awake and ordering him to flail one datacable out.

 

Blurting a _yelp_ , the mechling did, jacking it into the controls, single optic cycling closed as he avoided the fading light of the setting sun on the west, where the waves currently hit the sands on the relatively empty beachside, save for a few half-abandoned fishing boats on this piece of the Atlantic bathed by the Amazonian river, ending up in endless rainforest.

 

Had he any knack for irony, Shockwave would have snorted at the fact he reached the same shoreline where he had ended when he occupied the half-sunken Nemesis in first place, where he lived and learned by himself to first get by in this world, recalling that this time he had no backup shelter to fall back to.

 

Once the floating pod was close enough to the beach, he opened the lever to the pod’s sliding glass, taking his creation in one arm as the escape vessel filled with salt water and slowly drowned, Ratchet following suite with the four detachable paddles and coming out, the three mechs now observing the pod bubble down and sink.

 

Looking up the slowly darkening sky, devising the outlines of the South Cross constellation, Shockwave recalled his star charts from memory and triangulated their current position, finally releasing Microtron on the ground.

 

Feet sinking on the wet sand, Microtron shook his head, tanks rumbling as he turned to _carrier_ and literally tugged thrice with both claws at his chain and hook, a tilt in his head.

 

“Carrier?”

 

Shockwave stared down at him, stating matter-of-factly.

 

“I am aware you’re hungry, but I cannot provide anything now. We left without provisions. I am positive your frame can stand a couple of hours safely, if you undergo recharge protocols, beginning _now_ _._ ”

 

He pointed to a drier spot far from the shoreline. Microtron, systems running at 59%, sagged, but shook the salt water and the sand off his feet at each step, finally reaching said drier sand, mainframe-moding and offlining his biolights, as Ratchet, pursing his lips, sticking the paddles in the sand like poles, finally poked his _master._

 

“I happen to have nearly a half-cube in subspace. The _kid’s_ hungry.”

 

Shockwave shook his head.

 

“Compassionate, but illogical. Microtron is always _hungry_ no matter how full. I cannot provide any of my fluids unless I am fully replenished, and the crude fuel would be wasted on him. He is far from offlining, and he will _survive_.”

 

Ratchet, smirking, unsubspaced said cube.

 

“Very _logical._ But. Need I remind you that _your_ fuel levels are at 16% and at the rate you’re consuming your reserves, you won’t go through the night unless you fuel now _, master_?”

 

Shockwave knew. The _decepticon matrix_ taxed on him and he needed a minimum of two full cubes a day, considering he didn’t use his spark-frequency-changing abilities, as Ratchet inched closer, swirling the mentioned half-full energon cube before Shockwave’s cracked visor.

 

“I _could_ have fuelled myself almost to the top with it, given my own 54% current readings, but... you _know_. I’d rather not belong to _Soundwave_ any time soon.”

 

Intellectually appreciating Ratchet’s logical reasoning, unable to take his sight off the swirling cube as his systems accused him of very soon entering stasis lock, Shockwave, finally dipped his head in a nod, immediately taking his straw from subspace and accepting it.

 

“I am satisfied to see you once again prove to be an efficient slave, thinking through our chaotic departure and actually bringing sustenance of any kind.”

 

Ratchet, having not really thought about _sustenance_ , very aware he only brought the spare half-cube because it happened to be hanging around the desk with the rest of the _things_ , shrugged.

 

“Well, unless you want it to be your last meal, where or how do you plan to gather energy?”

 

Taking a fleeting glance at Microtron (currently looking like a marooned, discarded arcade machine in the sand), Ratchet watched the cube empty itself completely into the straw, Shockwave’s cracked visor glowing faintly once, systems now charged up to 68%, voicebox monotoning a not-reply.

 

“My paddles. Now.”

 

Returning the cube back, the scientist immediately turned his back to the medic, who rolled his optics and quickly clicked them on, Shockwave immediately rotating the hub, helicopter-moding and hovering above him as Ratchet blinked in surprise, looking up, the motion of the rotors spreading the sand in a circle around the medic.

 

“Now where do you think you’re going???”

 

Blades rotating in the air, Shockwave’s voice boomed from above.

 

“According to my calculations, we are close to a hangar that owns a source of crude fuel I have raided a couple of times about to four earthly years ago. I am the only one of us capable of getting there quickly enough. Microtron is stationary in alt-mode, you require paved roads to move, and this forested region is best suited for flight-moded frames like me.”

 

Unable to disagree with Shockwave’s _logic_ , Ratchet sagged, the single ping of the approaching moment of the synch getting to his systems, the last stirs of sanity coming to his frame, as his _master_ , hovering up, monotoned.

 

“I shall return with all my tanks full, including the main energon tank. The natives probably still remember the _Phantom_ _Mapingüari_. Do not wait up.”

 

Ratchet, optics burning and frame tingling as he tried not staring at his master’s departure, quickly strode through the sand until where Microtron was, alt-moding and parking at touching range right besides the mainframe-moded, recharging Microtron, already knowing the _hell_ that awaited him until the scientist came back.

 

* * *

 

The scientist came back right into _hell_ and had to shake his head.

 

Strolling into the Lab at what looked like and certainly had been the epicentre of a recent explosion, Perceptor, monocle gleaming lightly purple in the half-lit room, holding his sniper rifles on both shoulders, placed them on his own working bench, turning to contemplate the mess.

 

It was rare to find the Lab in such a state without the dismembered self of the lovely mad-engineer hanging around, so the scientist concluded Wheeljack must have been taken or took himself away in search of repairs.

 

Finally shrugging and sitting on his _thinking_ mesh sofa, optics offline, he snickered.

 

If he had any idea just a micron of _dark_ energon would give him the courage to do what he had been _wanting_ since as far as he remembered, since the very day he entered the Autobots and happened to come across the red plated, gleaming carrier-host, he would have gone after some, afterall!

 

Remembering how _grateful_ Blaster was for his interference with Ironhide afterwards, he really asked himself what he could currently do to make the tapedeck _happy_ , instantly remembering a certain cassettibot and a certain _Triplechanger_ _Cassette_ _Project_ that happened to be hanging around.

 

Standing up and going to the shelf where the blueprints datapad was, or should be, Perceptor actually growled once he found it was no longer there.

 

* * *

 

No longer needing to rest after the surprisingly intense bout of _interfacing_ he gave himself, Starscream, optics going online, stared down right at the constructicon still tied up and currently squirming underneath him.

 

“You. You’re aware it’s all your fault, you overcharged deuce. Had you been working instead of slacking with your high-grade, this would have never have happened!”

 

Not that Starscream was truly _complaining_ , given the lack of true _grating_ in his voice, but habits were hard to die.

 

“Damn, Starscream, you and I know _you_ were the one who did _everything_! You might not care, but I’m already _sparkbonded!_ To a full gestalt nonetheless!”

 

Starscream, lounging on the constructicon like he belonged there, rested on both elbows, holding his head up and looking down the medic.

 

“Weren’t you the one slurring about wanting to take that _insipid_ scientist’s seal?? Now you had the taste of a _seeker_ , which is much better than anything Shockwave might even remotely had to offer!”

 

Hook, unable to disagree it had been intense, hastily shook his head.

 

“I don’t care. Scrapper _and_ my gestaltmates will _scrap_ me! Release me!

 

At that Starscream slapped Hook’s face, leering and standing up, cleaning himself off imaginary dust.

 

“Ungrateful fool, I should have never let you _come_ even an inch close to my frame!”

 

And _come_ he did, quite a nice amount of times, earlier: face tingling with the taloned scratches, Hook had to instantly override his interfacing protocols, still under the influence of the screeching harpy’s presence, as he feared it would.

 

Not noticing the constructicon’s struggle however, Starscream, at the lack of further snark and reaction, losing interest, shrugged, just plain ripping the shackles out of the berth.

 

“There, free to go to your _mates_ and just let them _see_ your memories of me. Good luck to you, dear.”

 

Actually waving a little goodbye, knowing he was currently full of lime green and purple paint transfers, not to mention his _port_ full of _foreign_ transfluid, Starscream knew he had to hit the washracks soon, before anyone else found him out.

 

* * *

 

Before anyone else found him out, Ramhorn agreed to the CNA exchange, wondering _how_ the decepticon would give him his very own CNA sample, since the rhino owned _no_ interface panels, imagining the _worse_.

 

He was aware there were perverts keen on taking younglings barely a few million years old, like himself, despite the absence of panels, the size difference, and all, _and_ also heard horror stories of abused creations who had been filled trough mouthpieces and even emergency fuel entrances: to all effects it looked like Astrotrain could be one of those, afterall, what would be the readiest and purest CNA source available in an adult mech, other than…

 

“Here. Take it.”

 

Ramhorn lowered his head down to the _vial_ Astrotrain cautiously placed on the ground.

 

“You can touch it. It’s clean. I cleaned it myself _._ ”

 

Ramhorn leered as Astrotrain _winked_.

 

“Don’t tell old Shockwave I got hold of one of my _three_ own _sample vials_ the first and last time I _helped_ him, before we left Cybertron, more than four million years ago, when he requested for a _donation_ and admittedly I made a _mess_ of his lab. He had no idea I filled three and one vial remained with me. Who knew it would ever be useful for me as well!”

 

Ramhorn, mildly disgusted imagining how _old_ the sample was, turned it a _glower_ as Astrotrain _laughed_.

 

“Oh, bitlet. Don’t worry about it being _stale_ : Shockwave’s a _very_ capable bastard and his _tech_ just plain _works_. The sample vials are self-vacuum-sealing once closed. This is as fresh as new, if a bit gelled with the _cold_ ambient temperature. Getting it warm makes if fluid again. I know. I tried warming the vial up and it became as fluid as _fresh_ again. It’s actually fascinating.”

 

Ramhorn blinked twice, deciding he didn’t need the mental _images_ Astrotrain was _evoking_ , finally shaking his head, looking up with a surprised, inquisitive glare.

 

“My price then, since I’m not going to _frag_ you??” Astrotrain rumbled a deep laughter “Such a _cute_ little thing? You offend me. I’m not _Vortex_.”

 

He then observed the towering decepticon with the corner of his optics, as Astrotrain smiled.

 

“All you have to do is help me get revenge against _Skyfire_ , obviously. I want that scientist who thinks he’s a _shuttle_ to _suffer_.”

 

Running a little, evil, slow gear in mind, recalling his carrier was currently closely associated with Perceptor, who happened to have a _feud_ with Skyfire, Ramhorn nodded, smirking, raising his right paw as the towering shuttle caught it between his index and thumb, shaking it.

 

* * *

 

Shaking his head in a negative, Wheeljack actually stared unimpressed at the disco globe rotating and flaring annoying lights and obnoxious music right above his head, in the ceiling of the disco-globe’s own private room (that had previously belonged to Ratchet).

 

“No, it's not working.”

 

Technotor actually growled in disco-globe mode and jumped out of the ceiling, landing on his feet right before the engineer, looking up.

 

“How come not!!! It works with everyone! It works with _Prowl_! How can my mirrors and music not work with you! What’s wrong with you???”

 

Wheeljack, side panels glowing, honestly had no idea, although he had been asked quite a nice amount of times that same exact question, specially after every time he had managed to explode himself.

 

“I don’t know. The music and lights just don’t affect me. Sorry for disappointing you, I guess. In thinking I actually _like_ to rave! Can I help test something else?”

 

 _Depressed_ , Technotor sagged.

 

* * *

 

Sagging, his right door open and actually touching the mainframe-moded Microtron, seizing the peace of mind, Ratchet tuned his audials to listen to the far cries of the natives screeching in a language he did not know, the only word he actually recognised being _Mapingüari._

 

Smoke detectors flaring as he knew Shockwave was certainly messily raiding the fuel site, maybe even killing _people_ , he actually managed to get under a kind of uneasy recharge, induced by the complete lack of interfacing thoughts and heat he currently had, unable not to snort recalling that this was precisely one of the scenarios he had wanted to happen, them three running away together, when he first thought he had to leave the decepticons.

 

The instant the petrol-dirty, smoke-smelling, stained helicopter landed on the sand, root-moding and carrying in each hand a handful of crude fuel gallons with kerosene and regular gasoline, he was unable to keep holding himself and in an instant there he was, prostrate on his knees and hands, head down, unable to voice his _need._

 

Unaffected, looking down at the medic wanting yet not wanting to touch him, irradiating _heat_ and guilt, Shockwave deposed both loads of fuel on his sides on the ground, droning.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I ordered you to not wait me up.”

 

Ratchet nodded, nearly _breaking_ yet determined not to beg, as Shockwave, fully fuelled, already processing the gallons of kerosene he dumped in his regular helicopter tanks, dipped his head in a nod.

 

“I suppose in my need to gather fuel for us, I have unfairly forfeited your synch. Rise up, and expose your port.”

 

Without hesitation, treating it as a proper command and able to open the panel, he _did_ , as Shockwave, contemplating the white folds on the red background, actually tilted his head to the right, surprised.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. I was meaning the _medical_ port.”

 

Blinking, feeling instantly stupid and ashamed, he snapped his mostly unused _valve_ panel closed, hearing it instantly self-lock, letting open the medical port, as Shockwave took hold of the _cortical psychic patch_ , plugging in.


	39. Plug and Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaster regrets, The Prime rejoices and Knock-Out gets caught.

Plugging into the underbase’s comm system, Soundwave made sure every single mecha received the vid feed he faked of _Megatron_ informing everyone that Shockwave was back on Cybertron with both the autobot slave and Microtron, under the inquisitive optics of his cassetticons.

 

“Shockwave: escaped with slave and kidnapped Lord Megatron’s other creation. No one in base is to know, not even _sire_ , until Soundwave can rescue _poor_ Microtron. Cassetticons: copy?”

 

They nodded, as Ravage, being the oldest creation, just squinted: he did manage to develop a tiny memory pocked meant for his own private memories and thoughts to remain, out of _carrier_ ’s reach.

 

He was old and wise enough to realise Soundwave’s sometimes less than pure motifs for doing things, and even though he knew he would always be devout to his carrier, he made sure to not raise conflict while under their familial cohort.

 

Knowing Microtron would certainly have a fate similar to Ratbat the moment he were taken, for a second pondering if it would be fair, in his own partitioned sector of memory, unavailable to the tapedeck.

 

Afterall, Ratbat had been an evil slaver. Microtron was only a _kid._

 

“Mission: recognition. Ravage: must undergo _reconnaissance_ flight with Laserbeak and Buzzsaw.”

 

Sending wirelessly the approximate coordinates that his own escape pod, stolen by Shockwave, was currently at, Soundwave kept _monotoning_ in his semi-musical tonal voice.

 

“Current general location: Brazilian Rainforest, delta of Amazon river. Triangulating Microtron’s position: of utmost importance. Leave upper cloister deck now.”

 

He then shifted to the other symbionts.

 

“Rumble, Frenzy: will take care of stationary security cameras. Ratbat: undergo extensive patrol. Soundwave: has other matters to attend to now. Cohort: dismissed.”

 

All symbionts finally leaving, Soundwave sagged, pinging his currently recharging and self-repairing clumsy creation, Menace.

 

Receiving a dejected _buzz_ back, he shook his head in defeat and shame, deciding that if his next creations were to be just like the little stupid, paranoid, glitchy _insect_ , he would actively make sure to _not_ get sparked anymore.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not getting sparked anymore.”

 

Blaster spoke to the mirror, repeating it as a mantra, as if repeating it would make it real.

 

Snorting, he looked down his chest, hands sliding down his frame and bringing _memories_ up as he contemplated the barely visible _red_ paint transfers on his red plates, recalling on how in his overcharged haze, deliciously taken with more force than he thought he would, he underwent a physical overload, and then, with more than enough energy rotating around his own spark, unable by frametype not to comply with the tingling urge, opened his chestplates wide and invitingly to _merge_.

 

No wonder carrier-hosts were considered _shareware_ back on Cybertron: he himself was feeling like a very cheap one now.

 

“You’re a greedy little _glitch_ , Blaster, and it bites you up in the aft every single time.”

 

Hadn’t _Ramhorn_ been enough of a lesson?

 

At least this time he had been sober enough to not forget _who_ did it.

 

That’s it, no more irresponsibly getting sparked, this time he would _finally_ install the dreaded anti-sparking protocols.

 

Obviously, however, only after the hundreds of years needed to get his newest, recently generated, orbiting newspark out.

 

He certainly would need _spark_ energy for the next hundred years or so, and had currently no reliable partner to go for.

 

Smirking, feeling for the orbiting little thing around his own spark, he pondered about how to convey the news.

 

How was _Perceptor_ going to react to it though, he had no idea however, recalling that in case the _sniper_ scientist didn’t want to take _responsibility_ too, he had a _Lawyercon_ on hold.

 

* * *

 

Holding out of reach from the purple cyclops and his protocol-bot, currently taking Swindle away to their Tower, Judgelaw, the Lawyercon, followed them, making sure to remain at a safe distance.

 

He needed to get into the tower and reach the Primus-damned Spacebridge, otherwise he would never get paid!

 

Very glad he no longer had to sparkbond the two glitches, even if he had to fake being stupid enough to _knight_ them for that, he imagined himself permanently moving to wherever that carrier-host that hired him, what’s-his-name (Buster?), and making loads of cash from prosecuting other mecha!

 

Who knows, he might even manage to rescue that con mech Swine (or something like this) that was screeching to be freed and asked for his _call_ , with himself.

 

Imagine the Shanix they would make together!

 

Actually rumbling a cackle, then immediately shutting his mouth not to be discovered, he nodded evilly like only a good Lawyercon could, tip-peding after them towards Shockwave’s Tower, foggily showing up in the distance.

 

* * *

 

 _Distant_ , detached, the kerosene and gasoline-soaked Shockwave actually stared at his _cortical psychic patch_ , intrigued, as Ratchet, optics very wide, reigning himself in not to lunge at his _master_ , shook his head, nervously fidgeting with his hands, not knowing what to do with them.

 

“Shockwave, it’s not _working_. Why is it not working??”

 

Shockwave, disconnecting himself from the medic, now inspected closely his cortical psychic patch: it glowed as usual, it looked sound and showed no visible cracks, so…

 

Actually stalling, the scientist lead a hand to his own visor.

 

His very cracked visor.

 

Remembering how he connected his main hacking tool to work with his visor, and through it to his systems, he immediately stored the _cortical psychic patch_ back, leading both hands to the damaged visor now, messily digging his scalpel-bladed fingertips at the sides.

 

Ratchet, very worried about his _current state_ , momentarily jolted out of his thoughts with medical protocols flaring, just to glare at Shockwave’s face the instant a _ripping_ noise filled his audials.

 

“What the _frag_ are you trying to do???”

 

Fresh energon dribbled from the sides of Shockwave’s _real_ optics, visor now grossly removed and fused sides dribbling fresh energon, as the battlemask remained fused closed in place, Ratchet unable to stop staring at the mismatched blue optics and the visible silver scarline from right optic down into the unseen face.

 

He wanted so bad to touch it.

 

He wanted to immediately fix it, making all the damage and hurt go away.

 

He shrugged the last thought away, for Shockwave wouldn’t care to be comforted or healed anyway.

 

He then instantly wanted to lick that falling energon, rip out _master’s_ mask and locate his hidden mouth, invade it with his fingers until he could make Shockwave _suck_ his highly sensitive plating, EM-field wobbling at the thought.

 

He wanted to plunge the _blue_ lips with his glossa and show his _stupid_ _master_ how much he had been missing in not letting his mouthplates out.

 

He wanted to whine, prostrate himself and beg for permission to..

 

“Soundwave broke my visor. I should have anticipated the cracks would make it useless.”

 

Brought out of his interfacing haze by the monotone, Ratchet blinked and actually whined _._

 

“Don’t tell me you won’t be able to _synch_ me.”

 

“I will not be able to synch you.”

 

“I asked to not be told!!!”

 

The medic shook his head, optics turning off as the image of Shockwave’s fuel-stained self burned his retinae in the back of his optics, the heliformer wholly ignoring his slave’s conflict, absently glaring down at the cracked, broken visor, slowly turning it in his hands.

 

Ratchet, now semi-hypnotised back, looking down said pair of black hands, heat rolling out of his plates, immediately imagined himself kneeling down and taking them to his face, nuzzling against them, kissing and nibbling at each single fingertip, literally worshipping them, and...

 

Shockwave, ripping the congealed streaks that dribbled and dried down the sides of his face, popped his own emergency fuel dump open and just plain started throwing them in his own tanks, the medic once more jolting back to reality and gawking at the gory imagery he was being subjected to, as his _master_ faced him for a full second and droned.

 

“I might be fuelled now, but it is not logical to waste energon in any of its forms.”

 

And went back to self-fuelling, his hub engines working in processing the crude fuel into energon, as Ratchet blinked and felt for the heat emanating from the heliformer, mingling with his own _heat_ , immediately unable to keep _holding_ it anymore.

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t hold it anymore.

 

Crashing down with the deepest, strongest overload he ever had in all the millennia since he bonded that _glitch_ , Optimus Prime literally melted down, both knees up in each of his bodyguard’s shoulders, the blunt, scratched, charged fingers working their way into his transformation seams, grounding him by his hips and finally filling him with the unadorned, just plain thick and fully pressurized and slightly bent up _spike_ , hips rolling to meet all possible nodes and maximise their contact, Ironhide’s mouthplates never leaving his neck-cables as he was taken like a turbofox in heat against the corn field, on the ground.

 

Completely understanding _why_ Blaster managed to continuously get sparked, for Ironhide was just that damn _good_ , he instantly received the unwelcome ping of the _Matrix_ requesting to be let out in the open.

 

Pushed out of his bliss for a second, he looked down his chest, snapping.

 

“Who commands who here? Who??? Tell me!”

 

As the Matrix _whined_ , getting properly overridden by a _real_ Prime, and Ironhide whispered _You, and only you, my Prime_ , Optimus most definitely crashed into a second, prolonged overload now, finally his guardian growling against his audials and finishing himself into the thirsty, greedy _valve_ , the Prime’s newest mate of _choice_ wholly approved by the _Matrix_ pulsing in his chest.

  


* * *

 

 _Decepticon_ _Matrix_ pulsing in his chest, warped and greedy, Shockwave barely noticed the instant he was _attacked_.

 

Currently crashed on his back, sand caking on his oily seams and stained surfaces, rotor hub digging in the sand with the weight of his heavily armoured frame, paddles going bent with the impact, Shockwave actually glared down at his _slave_ , a tilt in his head, the autobot having migrated to between his legs, currently sitting on his own knees and pining his _master_ down in the ground with one red hand by each side of the white hips.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. You are depicting inappropriate behaviour.”

 

The interface-driven Ratchet, reasonably reigning himself in despite the situation, took his own mental notes of the fact that despite apparently complaining, so far Shockwave made absolutely no move to remove him from where he was or to make him stop, finally resting one hand in each of the heliformer’s thighs, slowly spreading them apart with a smirk.

 

Unafraid and unworried, the decepticon activated his medical sensors, systems running at 95% percent efficiency and processing fuels for his creation, dipping his head in a detached nod, actually impressed at the self-control the medic was depicting, as comprehension kicked in.

 

Due to his now useless _cortical psychic patch_ , the Chief Medical Officer had not been synced before the time limit, and thus the interfacing protocols were activated in full force, waiting to be soothed by the master’s will and command.

 

Detachedly letting his legs part, then, deciding he required the medic to remain useful and _sane_ , not to mention they had no fuels to spare with frivolities like foreplay, Shockwave just plain snapped the autobot panel open, exposing the blue bi-folded port and droning a single warning.

 

“If Microtron comes out of recharge you will stop.”

 

At that Ratchet fleeted a glance at the marooned mechling apparently recharging in mainframe mode, biolights off, out of reach and far from sight, snorting.

 

“You, master, _worried_ by the possibility of him seeing us?”

 

Shockwave, unfazed by irony, merely lead a lazy fingertip towards the blue upper node, pressing slowly against it until it glowed, then sliding his middle finger between the folds, as Ratchet jolted his optics to the _scene_ and swallowed very dry at the finger burying itself inside the now biolight-glowing _valve_ , the first droplets of pre-transfluid coming from his slotted interface cable, locked behind his plates.

 

“I am willing to indulge your _need_ and I strongly advise against attempting to provoke me, for it will yield no favourable results: You are running out of time, _Chief Medical Officer_.”

 

* * *

 

Running out of time and space, the _Chief Medical Officer_ Hook sagged in relief once he was off the washracks, fuel topped, scratches and paint transfers buffed out, and not a single molecule of _Starscream_ up on his shell.

 

Off with the physical evidence, now onto locking then _erasing_ medical files away!

 

If Hook did it right he might only need Soundwave to make the _spark memory_ go away for good, and then, only then, he would be able to return to his bonded and his gestalt.

 

Thinking of them, now he wasn’t that desperate to get rid of evidence anymore, his mates didn’t call him a single time since he left to his leisurely high-grade sloshing time, and it wasn’t like them to send nothing at all.

 

Shooing the bad impression away, actually believing this time it had been a blessing in disguise, for he would have no face to meet them right now, he nearly jumped out of his plates the instant his room’s door whirred open, slowly turning on his back to see…

 

“Commander?”

 

Stepping inside as he recalled a datacable on his back, Soundwave stepped close, inspecting the room, as Hook, unblinking, fidgeted with his hands, nervousness rolling out of his plates.

 

“Hook: needing _help_?”

 

Releasing an in-venting he wasn’t aware he was holding, he nodded, instantly prostrating himself on Soundwave’s feet, letting out everything that happened and on how he had no idea how to rectify things with his gestaltmates, for he truly didn’t want to upset Scrapper and…

 

Stopping deadly mute as Soundwave raised a hand up asking for silence, Hook glared at the datacable slowly flailing out of the tapedeck’s back, as Soundwave monotoned.

 

“Soundwave: can offer erasure and relief of guilt. Hook: will be indebted with a single, easy task, nothing Hook hadn’t already provided to my ever growing _cohort_ in the past.”

 

Nodding and agreeing, opening up his main medical dataport, Hook, acquiescent, felt the datacable probe and approach his connection, feelers crawling in and mind instantly going dark.

 

* * *

 

Darkness engulfing her, _spark_ spinning down as _wa_ _rnings_ filled her systems, Elita-1 had no time to brake or avoid the fall.

 

Having been running nearly blinded with rage through a shortcut gladly provided by Google Maps, she never knew she would befall so low.

 

Or so deep.

 

As her _Honda Civic SI_ 2.5 mode rotated down the sudden cave-in and she transformed, cursing the complete absence of a flight mode in her autobot frame, ancient, thick cobwebs were dragged down altogether with the fall, and the sound of millions of scurrying little legs crawled over her frame, her pink plates going down the hole and disappearing into the dark fog.

 

* * *

 

Fogged dark, visor blinking on, mask closing in place, First Aid slowly awoke and even slower, extracted himself away from under Blades’ heavy, possessive arms, doing his best not to awake his bonded.

 

The chopter, now on his front, face muffled down the mesh to all effects looking like a sprawled starfish with paddles, alone in the berth, rotated his hub and his rotor blades slowly, as First Aid contemplated his bonded with a warm dark royal blue tint to his visor.

 

No matter how much he loved the heliformer, sometimes too much was too much, and he ought to reopen the medbay, at least partially, sometime.

 

Immediately recalling that Red Alert had been brought earlier by Inferno, knowing the details of his _condition_ , he felt obliged to ring a comm.

 

* * *

 

Comm line ringing, Knock-Out braked, putting a halt to his persecution of the two brides, getting nearly rammed in the back by Hot-Rod, following up close and yelping as he braked to avoid collision.

 

“Watch out!!”

 

Ignoring his loud, obnoxious racing companion, Knock-Out actually root-moded and strutting his hip to the left, answered it while checking on his fingertips.

 

“Knock-Out, Fashion Mods and Body Shop, speaking.”

 

He rolled his optics up, as Hot-Rod root-moded too, approaching and managing to listen to the apparently despairing con-mech screeching on the background.

 

“Swindle, ray of sunshine. How much I hate hearing you again.”

 

Knock-Out snorted.

 

“Arrested? By _Shockwave_ and his drone in his Tower? I told you all those illegal things you sell would eventually get you locked up. Were you really stupid enough to waste your only call with me?”

 

Hot-Rod sharpened his audials then, inching his face closer as Knock-Out kept speaking and gesticulating.

 

“Please. Swindle, you don’t have any friends! Why don’t you try bribing your own _team_ or something to get out for a change?”

 

Knock out actually growled then.

 

“So Vortex had his spike and valve ripped apart and in pieces by _Shockwave_. It must have been _deserved_. You thinking they might help you out of Shockwave’s Tower if you help the fragger? I’m impressed. You are actually managing to grasp the concept of teamwork. At least partially.”

 

Hot-Rod then poked Knock-Out, getting his hand swatted at as the red racer still spoke.

 

“Listen. Don’t call me again. I don’t want to know. What part of _I’m not interested in being part of your slag anymore_ did you not understand?”

 

Hot-Rod poked Knock-Out, this time a bit more urgently, as Knock-Out ignored him completely, screeching against the comm.

 

“And _who_ in this forsaken planet would _force_ me into cooperating with you and your disgusting _team_?”

 

As soon as he proffered these words they were surrounded by three distinct transformation sounds, stalling rotor blades and a tank and a 4x4’s engines following suite, as Knock-Out and Hot-Rod, standing up, back to back, ready to fight, heard with dread Onslaught’s rumbling laughter filling the Emptiness around.

 

* * *

 

Emptiness all around, coming to a halt and stopping to run, Nautica and Firestar huddled together, fancy mods being the only source of light all around, the wails of half-dead banshees echoing in the dark.

 

Plating on her back raising at the unnatural sound, Nautica was currently very worried at knowing nothing on this particular planet and missing _Caminus_ , as Firestar was completely _terrified_ , precisely because she knew _enough_.

 

“Where are we?”

 

Placing a hand at her _amica's_ mouth-plates, Firestar made a sign asking for silence, pointing at the half-demolished portal in the distance from where the sounds came, an ancient fallen sign in the road reading _Polyhex_.


	40. We ain’t in Polyhex anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soundwave plots, Ratchet theorises, Starscream thinks he's smart, and Scavenger tracks.

_He wasn’t in Polyhex anymore_.

  


And for that Soundwave felt truly glad.

  


Having previously come to his own quarters to rest from his newest hacking job on _Hook_ , Soundwave, just awoken from a flux from his own ancient memory banks, literally _deleted_ the memory file of the flux away, shaking his head.

  


He would never go back _there_. None of his creations would have to go through what he did.

  


Much like Vos belonged to the fliers and seekers, Tarn was home to heavy-duty and workload frames and Praxus had the doorwinged grounders, he recalled bitterly how communication-oriented tentacled mecha, from a single appendix to multiple ones, populated Polyhex back in his time there, in the time _before_.

  


Shooing away the memories of citizens succumbing to madness once their rumbling tanks ran Empty _and_ they started turning to frame and fluid’s _cannibalisation_ for survival, effectively turning his home-city into part of the wastelands and permanently associating the tentacled mecha with sparkeaters, processed-energon-suckers, and all sorts of mythological demons, Soundwave couldn’t help snorting at the sheer irony of the combination of the multiple-tentacled Microtron sharing his CNA, with Shockwave mimicking his own spark frequency, and thus, together, both having managed to steer the pod away to escape.

  


Checking his systems and for an instant remembering the three datacables that had remained after Shockwave’s escape, mourning his fourth one, he growled, glad Scrapper had properly provided its amputation and only his own spark-memory of it remained, absolutely no phantom-limb feeling left in his neural net.

  


Very aware that only the Constructicons currently knew Shockwave was being chased, having managed to keep five out of six of them under his direct control, locked inside their own _bay,_ he immediately flailed his three datacables out and latched them on the underbase’s systems, very intent in locating Scavenger: the stupid lug was the only one left that could ruin up his plans for _good_.

  


* * *

  


“ _Good_ riddance to you!”

  


Swindle spat from behind bars as the drone First took away his comm, ignoring the salesmech’s tantrum: as far as he understood, his teammates had managed to catch on to the underground body modder _doctor_ Knock-Out, and basically that meant they would be too busy getting to _fix_ Vortex, most probably leaving poor _Swindle_ to rust in his cage, locked away for a long while.

  


Sulking to himself and starting to take account of his recent financial losses, he couldn’t help jolting out of place the instant a pitch black mech with burning red optics, a black mesh toga over his shoulders and a frilly white wig atop his head lounged from outside his cage against the energon bars.

  


“Hello, _Swine_. Needing _help_?”

  


Swindle, groaning, never raising his head off the account’s datapad, snapped.

  


“It’s _Swindle_! Primus, don’t call me that, it might give my customers a bad impression!”

  


The instant Swindle actually looked up, widening his optics to a slight purple rim, he slowly took on the mech’s upper-class attire, sight lingering on his large shoulder-blades adorned by the black toga, chestplates marked by the _Quintessons’_ Juridical Caste’s _brand_ , and as recognition kicked in, immediately, interest picked, almost fanned himself: the Lawyercon, unaffected, side-smirked, his immaculate white dental plates shining in a killer smile.

  


“Whatever-your-name then. Looks like we both have _customers_ we need to keep up to. My name is Judgelaw, I’m the last Lawyercon, and we could make a sweet deal. I free you off the cage, and you open up the Spacebridge for me to reach the autobots on Earth. What do you think of it?”

  


Swindle, shaken back to reality, snorted and blurted a cackle.

  


“If I had it, do you think I’d be locked up now? That screen-faced drone took my comms and my remote control away!”

  


* * *

  


All _control_ having been remotely taken away, inhaling the smell of the wet sand and the brine, so familiar down the underbase and on this beachside, added to the kerosen and gas, the scent of the pinkish _lubricants_ hitting his sensors full force, optics going nearly glassy and warmth pooling down his plates, Ratchet focused into the black finger buried into the glistening folds, pondering on how _slagged_ he would be if the little _cannibal_ really awoke, until Primus-knew-when he would decide to get under recharge again and Shockwave might allow him to _proceed_ once more, deciding he could for once let the snark _go_.

  


“As you command _,_ _master_.”

  


And dipped his face to the right, parting his mouthpiece with a slack glossa and tracing a long and slow strip of a lick at the inside of Shockwave’s left thigh.

  


Shockwave, following with his optics the medic’s motion, not a stir showing in his frame, slowly inserted both the right index and his middle finger into the blue folded _valve_ , twisting his hand and crooking both fingers up in a hook, pressing against his upper sensors, a single cooling fan clicking _on._

  


“Do not bother. Foreplay is wasted on me.”

  


The flat vocoded voice droned, stating matter-of-factly, as the glassy opticed Ratchet stared hypnotised at the moment when Shockwave removed his fingers out of the wet folds, sliding them up slowly into the glowing upper sensor and keeping their way up into his abdominal plates, gliding over his chain and hook, idly tracing his chestplate glass, finally reaching the base of his neck fuel intake, popping its lid open and actually filling them in and twisting both slowly, optics flaring almost white for a second.

  


“As you can see, I am sufficiently lubricated.”

  


Hypnotised as the black fingers came out of the fuel intake smeared with kerosen, Ratchet swallowed dry for a second, his regular ambulance tanks rumbling once, then blinking back to reality, now looking at his master’s expressionless and unblinking optics, Ratchet smirked, teasing.

  


“Are you calling my _attentions_ _waste_? Do you want me to _stop_?”

  


In one single, brutish move, moving his lubricant and kerosene stained hand and fingers against the ground and gripping on brine-soaked sand, Shockwave raised his left leg up on his slave’s right shoulder, letting it weight down for a click, the medic nearly buckling under the sudden drop of mass, bracing himself not to fall.

  


“Is _my creation_ awake?”

  


Ratchet, adjusting his hydraulics to hold the weight, glanced at the immobile mainframe far from sight, shaking his head.

  


“Then you will _not_ stop, Chief Medical Officer.”

  


Contemplating the massive split tail rotor slowly rotating within its socket at the foot, Ratchet dipped his head down in a nod and then deliberately, slowly licked his way towards the hip joint, reaching the edge of the ventral plating where he placed a sinfully long stripe at the exposed articulation underneath three visible layers of plating, noticing the black and blue undertones of what could only be the original covering of Strongarm’s leg.

  


“No wonder you have very few _feeling_. There’s armour enough to shield a small tank here and I can’t even imagine how you still manage to fly, _master._ ”

  


Shockwave nodded, uncaring to be considered _heavy_ , unaffected by irony, charge crackling, heat giving off his frame as his systems overflowed with processed energon in storage, droning.

  


“Helicopters are supposed to maintain vertical flight and haul cargo sometimes apparently excessive to their structure and the main and tail rotors are calibrated to the added weight; I took my medical rescue helicopter model EC130 from a from a military facility. Strongarm’s shell was chosen on purpose to withstand a set of variables including height, weight, base strength, and obviously, a main neural net capable of withstanding a battle computer as powerful as the one in Commander Officer Prowl, or in my specific case, the addition of two medical processors working in parallel. It gave me a superior processing power 86% more efficient than Strongarm’s upper neural net could previously achieve without resorting to the temporary trick of system overclock, which admittedly would force me to remain locked in cooled up rooms, which would just not be either practical or logical.”

  


Rolling his optics at the endless speech, Ratchet suddenly _bit_ on the less protected area of the exposed strut, holding the plating between his dentae and smirking like a lazy cybercat, as Shockwave instantly stopped speaking, EM field flaring for the duration of a second, quickly returning to default levels, no outward reaction except tilting his head right almost in bovine passivity, inexpressive mismatched optics boring into the medic’s own.

  


“I expect your reasons for biting me are _logical_.”

  


“Sorry, _master_.” said the sniggering, clearly _not-sorry_ medic “I was just testing a little _theory_.”

  


Actually blinking, now _two_ cooling fans clicking on, Shockwave had to make an actual effort not to let his EM-field loose at the mention of a _theory being tested_ , tilting his head down, optics now glowing dark royal-blue.

  


“And what would that _theory_ be, Chief Medical Officer? Do you have the _calculations_ for the variables involved?”

  


Nibbling lightly the same plating and this time earning himself absolutely no reaction, Ratchet actually nuzzled his face and nose against it, optics offline, whispering.

  


“The _n_ is _completely_ representative, and the _p_ amounts to _less_ than 0.0001.”

  


Dipping his head in a visibly _awed_ nod, Shockwave actually revved his engines out loud, rotor hub (buried in the sand) unable to move, giving off heat in large waves and stalling noisily, as Ratchet basked in the heavy, heady gravity pulling him closer, optics going dim, his own electromagnetic field _replying_.

  


“ _Theorise_ for me then, Chief Medical Officer.”

  


Shockwave let the weight of his leg _go_ , Ratchet instantly bracing himself under the heavily armoured underside of his master’s left knee weighting down on his shoulder and _pulling_ him down through gravity alone, his hydraulics nearly failing, cooling fans fully clicking on, a very lopsided grin in his face.

  


“Start taking _notes_ then, _master_. I intend to be very _thorough_.”

  


And succumbed under the weight, meeting the blue folds with a slow, prolonged, _vosian kiss_ , glossa plunging in and _charge_ immediately peaking between both, the heavyweight leg reflexively, instantly, locking around the medic’s neck, Shockwave’s neck arching back, hands gripping against the sand on the ground as if his life depended on it.

  


* * *

  


Gripping against the ground as if her life depended on it, Elita-1, having lost track of time, optics onlining instantly as _heat_ crept up her pink plates, unable to stand up, stared up into the dark of the cave-in she fell into, completely alone.

  


Except for those fragging _insects_ surrounding her, that is.

  


Most definitely, the instant she managed to get _out_ and return to base she was going to give _Optimus_ fragging _Prime_ a piece of her mind!

  


Quickly running diagnostics and receiving a myriad of errors from her many turned-off systems, unable to track on the oil or even the fuel of her alt-mode, minutely aware of all the dents and twists and cracks in her armour and struts, paralysed from the waist down, she snorted the instant she knew her best chance of being rescued lied on _The Prime,_ as sparkbonded, actually wanting to locate her.

  


Attempting to revert to alt-mode in hope of getting to use her _tires_ to move, her parts shifted awkwardly and actually got into a _shape_.

  


Just not the shape she was _accustomed_ to.

  


* * *

  


Accustomed to shaping and controlling his life’s events to the T, Soundwave currently stood annoyed at how he apparently was wholly unable to track Scavenger.

  


Sending a message through Scrapper _via_ their gestalt bond yielded no results: so far there had been no reply.

  


Not even summoning Mixmaster and latching his three leftover cables into the chemist’s head, using his own shell and spark-connection to ping for Scavenger’s current location, worked.

  


One way of avoiding detection was to purposefully block the sparkbond.

  


The other two sure-proof ways were, either the _scout_ was too far away, or unlike all expectations, he was only gestalt-bonded, not truly _sparkbonded_ to the chemist, and that left Soundwave at a loss.

  


Mixmaster had even thrown a major tantrum forbidding Scavenger of donating _transfluid_ to Shockwave’s experiments back on Cybertron once he found out Shockwave had a _habit_ of aiding the constructicon.

  


Obviously, the constructicons complained directly to Megatron, who in turn went after _Shockwave_ , who happened to have very _logical_ reasons for providing said _aid_ , namely the scientific need to keep the samples as sterile as possible.

  


As such, Soundwave, always interceding in favour of the purple cyclops, to keep his main source of _sparkmerging_ for the sake of his own tapelings and creations, once more _did_ , and with no more than a warning to _his_ scientist, their _Lord_ finally let it go.

  


Shaking his head, Soundwave facepalmed, not believing his lack of luck.

  


After all the ruckus Mixmaster provoked, it seemed so obvious the insane cement mixer had to be personally _spark_ _bonded_ to the stupid lug!

 

How did Scavenger manage to keep this kind of _secret_ _s_ from _The Master of the Spy Net_?

  


It was more than obvious that _Shockwave_ must have _shielded_ his mind from probing, somehow, afterall.

  


Groaning, considering the tapedeck had never truly cared enough for the materials-retriever, to keep a full watch on him, despite the obvious _preference_ he had always had towards Shockwave, Soundwave decided it was no use being _mad_ now, and visor dim, could only hope his creations would be _aware_ of Microtron’s whereabouts anytime soon.

  


* * *

  


Dimly aware that anytime Microtron would _wake_ _up_ and come to his whereabouts, Shockwave, half-lost in the drowsing physical sensations his autobot port could provide, having separated half his processing power to analyse and chart the event, lazily rested his left hand atop Ratchet’s head, tracing the back of his helm and wholly _approvin_ _g_ the medic’s way of delivering _lip_ - _service_ to a _thesis_ , almost letting himself _go_...

  


… suddenly shifting his hand into a punishing grip on Ratchet’s right shoulder, instantly pulling him up and away from the fluttering, nearly overloading _valve_ , bringing the medic’s face to his battlemask, black right hand sliding down towards the front of the _red_ interface array, a fingertip reaching the lateral seam and manually unlocking it, then literally grabbing the panel in a vice grip, droning.

  


“You passed your _thesis_ with honours but you still need to _submit_ the _abstract_ into analysis.”

  


Not missing the faintly glowing lubricants shining up on his slave’s slowly smirking lips and chin, he had no time to react before he was literally flipped onto his front, optics going offline as the right side of his mask hit the ground, elbows digging on the sand, having each of the bent paddles roughly removed and thrown away, instantly feeling for the medic’s thighs invading the space between his legs and forcing his knees apart, the weight of Ratchet’s large windshield bumping against his rotor hub, followed by a _click_ and the feeling of the red and white _interface cable_ pressurising _and dripping_ against his aft as a close, heated whisper reached the back of his neck.

  


“Is the _Cybertronian Medical Board_ acceptable for publishing on the _back-cover_?”

  


Shockwave’s only hazy, ready response was to strut and roll his hips up, knees down on the sand now, EM-field let loose and large, his blue folds meeting the underside of the medic’s spike with a full, slow slide, shuddering as he was instantly filled from behind in a single move, all sensors flaring to life at once into the perfectly _mirrored_ valve.

  


Were he still the pre-Empurata Shockwave he would be feeling disgusted at this _function_ the Council instituted to all _females_ , so that they would never truly _stray_.

  


As it was however, hips gripped by the medic’s red, abused hands as he mechanically pounded without mercy against his folds, each motion making his mismatched optics minutely flare white, Shockwave, absolutely not caring as long as this _function_ just plain _worked_ , finally let his control go, slipping under a thrumming, rumbling overload as his back arched against the medic’s front and his legs slowly gave in, sitting on his own pedes as electricity passed in large crackles through their entwined frames, spreading in a radius around them.

  


Feeling for the rippling contractions of the autobot panel hungrily directing the valve’s sucking motion _in_ , Ratchet moved his right hand down his master’s exposed port to press on the glowing non-pressurising upper node, left hand moving up to grip against the protruding chestplate’s cockpit glass, face burying against the decepticon’s neck, hips jerking one, two, three…

  


* * *

  


_One, two, three..._

  


Starscream, hiding behind a column down the grunt’s sector, sighed, watching the personality-shifting Blitzwing slowly pass by (heatedly discussing with himself _and_ himself!) without noticing him, having so far successfully remained out of everyone else’s sight until he could safely reach one of the public washracks.

  


Afterall, his two idiotic trinemates were still in _his_ room, but even if they weren’t locked, it obviously wouldn’t do to demand them open the door while he retained all those unsightly lime green paint and purple paint transfers littering his frame.

  


Having practice in keeping thoughts hidden from his trinebond _and_ from Soundwave, he knew he would be fine, as long as he had managed to make all the transfluid and the paint scratches _go_.

  


As he made sure Blitzwing had really gone, the seeker hastily got into the public _showers_ , immediately turning on the seawater-plus-solvent spray and swiftly letting his _port_ out in the open, draining all the phosphorescent-green-tinted fluid away as it swirled down the grater and he couldn’t hide a semi-disgusted snigger, hips strutting up and hands aiding for the cleaning solution to slide in and take the _evidence_ out.

  


Starscream did quick work of the paint transfers, literally shaking the solvent out of his frame like a cyberwolf would to his fleas, then thumped out of the public washracks, feeling victorious and smug at having sneaked in and out unseen, a smirk in his plates.

  


Now, to his _dearest_ trinemates: he was dying to get his petty revenge, and could barely contain himself in place.

  


* * *

  


Barely containing himself in place, Scavenger, just out of the tunnel he opened underwater, walking away from the ocean, full of seaweed hung on his shovel, seawater dripping from his frame, nodded to himself, feeling smug and victorious!

  


Having been the one responsible for gathering the materials in Commander Shockwave’s _cortical psychic patch_ , he knew precisely how to track him, as long as he still had the patch, adjusting his mineral sensors to find precisely this particular combination.

  


As soon as the _beacon_ for the location of the one and only _cortical psychic patch_ on Earth came to his mind in his 3D-layered underground and surface map, he made sure to come by the fastest he could.

  


His favourite _commander_ was somewhere very close now, and he could barely wait to meet him again at last!

  


As such, checking up on his coordinate system for the _cortical psychic patch_ , he immediately jolted his visor and mask to the right, intent in running towards the _commander_ , being instead blinded by a shimmering, violent source of light.

  


Protecting his face from the pulsing _source_ , he adjusted his visor to focus on the exposed _thing_ coming out of Shockwave’s chest and glowing _white_ , unbelieving his optic system as the surroundings became clear.

  


His favourite commander was getting attacked and it was his duty to help!

  


Immediately angry, he lunged against the duo, hands balled into fists and ready to attack.

  


* * *

  


Hands balled into fists and ready to _attack_ , Starscream viciously punched the door of his own quarters.

  


Deciding he had shielded his mind and thoughts enough, all he had to do now to hide his _cheating_ was acting in rightful indignation with loads of screeching, guilty-tripping his trine.

  


It always did the trick against them, afterall.

  


Inside, Thundercracker came out of recharge immediately and groaned as the screeches sept through the door, fleeting a glance at his purple, peacefully recharging companion, _listening_.

  


“ _I’m the leader of this trine and I deserve respect! You’ve been there for too long! I’ll shriek and pound against this door until your audials burst and your internals collapse in a blubbering mass and you’ll get to grovel beneath my feet for forgiveness for millennia to come! How dare you two lock me out and away!!! I’m the Prince of Vos! I’m…!”_

  


The door instantly hung open, as Thundercracker flung his hand right over Starscream’s trap, growling and visually scooping his frame.

  


“Skywarp. Is. Recharging.”

  


And pulled Starscream in, locking the door and lunging the obnoxious seeker against the wall with a thud.

  


“Hmmmpf.” the dark-faced seeker snorted, nose-up and being the smallest of his trine, glared up “And I bet the warping fool is _tired_ of all the _attention_ you gave him, when you should be _giving_ it to me.”

  


Thundercracker squinted, EM-field flaring large once, then rose his left hand to Starscream’s neck, optics crimson, spatting.

  


“At least I had been with my own _trinemate_.”

  


Scrapping his right index’s claw on the seeker’s own lip-plates as Starscream hissed and threatened a _bite_ against it, Thundercracker raised his finger up to Starscream’s optics.

  


“And you, _Screamer_ , _where_ had you been all this time?”

  


Optics widening slowly at the phosphorescent-green paint chip tinting the tip of Thundercracker’s fingertip, Starscream, grimacing as he braced himself for the _worst,_ EM-field shrinking in dismay, led his right hand to his own lips, in a light touch _._

  


* * *

  


_Light_ touching the edges of his view, mid-overload, Shockwave, chestplates open wide and _decepticon matrix_ jolted to the outside, EM-field rolling out of his plating in waves, felt for the heat and _light_ coming from the medic on his back, his parasite _whining_ at their current placement.

  


_Cease meddling with my frame. I do not aim to merge. You are being distracting._

  


_Solus Prime_ , in her momentary é _lan vital_ , renewed by the _overload_ , snorted and just because she could, managed once more to disrupt her host’s control and advanced locks, rotating the jolting mechanism and now exposing the bluish spark to the air, in hopes of a sparkmerge.

  


She didn’t like in the least being scolded by that _non-Prime_ , afterall.

  


Were he a proper Prime, he would have known that this was _her_ frame as much as _his_ and that he needed to learn to compromise!

  


Sending a _zap_ of electric charge to her host’s own sparkchamber, she brought forth what Shockwave could only define as a _spark_ overload, his back jerking involuntarily, electric energon crackles spreading through the white shell and his own spark thrumming with excess energy, all his upper processors connections immediately shutting down, the only thing preventing him of collapsing down right away being Ratchet’s right hand currently vice-gripping right under the protruding cockpit, the left one keeping their hips joined as his transfluid tank finished emptying itself into the blue folds.

  


Hoping to have sent the message across, _Solus Prime_ drifted out as well, as Ratchet, his own chestplate open, facing the rotor hub, spark-light coming through the narrow space between the two shells, face buried against the left side of Shockwave’s neck, lost in overload, was wholly unable to help getting snatched out of _master’s_ back.

  


Dimly aware of his surroundings, chestplaces and interface-panels closing immediately as safety measure, Ratchet felt all conscious motor control leave his frame under his fading optics, last image reaching his retinal scanners being that of the fading spark-light as a lime-green and purple decepticon rushed to cradle the now slumped, offline heliformer, Shockwave’s chestplates closing under the starry sky.


	41. My God. It's full of stars!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave gets help, Microtron wants to make science, Optimus does-not-want, and Scavenger does his best to impress.

Under the starry sky, Scavenger lightly patted on Shockwave’s battlemask.

 

“Commander? Commander? Commander Shockwave?”

 

Cradling him against his chest, knelt down on his own pedes, the constructicon turned a glower to the fallen Ratchet, torn between ripping the other’s internals and keeping the offed heliformer in arms, the instant a pair of mismatched, expressionless blue optics flickered and bore into him.

 

“Constructicon Scout Scavenger.”

 

Instantly cradling Shockwave’s face against his own, mask to battlemask, Scavenger nuzzled against him.

 

“I was returning from gathering materials to build Starscream’s Yellow Submarine and then Scrapper pinged me asking for me to return to base because _Commander_ Soundwave was requesting your capture, then _Mixy_ tried pinging me for the gestalt bond and I decided not to reply before I got to you, and I wondered if there was anything I could do for you since you are the best commander and...”

 

Scavenger kept talking as he held his favourite commander way too tightly until the cold vocoded voice droned.

 

“Constructicon Scout Scavenger. It is not logical to crush me.”

 

Loosening his grip, Scavenger mumbled one _sorry_ , as Shockwave unsubspaced his broken visor, the constructicon fleeting his own optic band to it like a moth to flame, his HUD immediately starting to analyse the combination of materials within it.

 

“Soundwave broke my visor and I require that you retrieve me an adequate substitute that can receive a direct connection with my _cortical psychic patch._ ”

 

Scavenger, taking a hand towards his favourite commander’s face and mask, briefly traced the previously fused sides where the broken visor used to be.

 

“What happened, commander?”

 

Shockwave glared with the expressionless optics and dipped his head in a nod.

 

“Soundwave, as you know, usually turns a blind optic to my _rendezvous_ and faux pas, except when it finally meant endangering his position with Lord Megatron, which is very _logical_ and I do comprehend: however, he intends to reframe my creation into one of his own cassetticons, like he did to Ratbat and I cannot allow it to happen.”

 

Scavenger nodded, recalling how the ex-senator was converted and erased, as Shockwave continued.

 

“Which is why the new visor is a very urgent need: without the use of my _cortical psychic patch_ I am little better than a _lab assistant_ and _nurse,_ and I’ll need it to properly escape Soundwave’s grasp.”

 

Scavenger nodded and briefly saluted, his optic band going glassy as he pulled to the forefront of his mind the list of materials for the cortical psychic patch as well and compared the compound substances of the visor that were chemically compatible with the patch, the scientist still droning.

 

“The Chief Medical Officer, Microtron and I shall be on the move as soon as you leave to retrieve it, and I expect you will be able to track my position, wherever I leave to.”

 

Scavenger nodded, then stood up and helped bring Shockwave to his feet, glaring down at the unsightly red paint transfers and taking a slow glower at the closed, transfluid-stained white interface panel, turning his optic band to the slumped out medic.

 

“Do you want me to _take care_ of the slave that was _attacking_ you, Commander?”

 

Shockwave, EM-field flat, tilted his head to the right, briefly analysing the offlined Ratchet and giving an evasive reply.

 

“Do not bother. The Chief Medical Officer is physically incapable of hurting me or my creation. I am not bodily harmed.”

 

In a calculated move, then, fleeting a side glance to check if Microtron was still recharging, Shockwave looked up at the constructicon, raising a hand to his mask.

 

“Know that I always prized your precise retrieving abilities and your spontaneous willingness to serve. Do not fail me, Scavenger: I may even _reward_ you later.”

 

Scavenger, insanely _proud_ , beamed and leaned against the proffered hand, almost purring in delight, head tilted to the right, visual band going offline as his processors tracked for compatible visors located worldwide, as the constructicon quietly nodded.

 

Commander Shockwave specifically requested for his special abilities and it was his duty to help!

 

* * *

 

_It was his duty to help._

 

A semi-truck and his guardian braked nearby the sinkhole where they had managed to track the location of the Prime’s _sparkbonded._

 

_Did he want to help?_

 

Root-moding and showing off unsightly red paint transfers all over his windshield, and black scrapes on his aft, Optimus Prime stared down to the darkness, _sighing_ , as Ironhide, bluish-like streaks similarly littering his frame, scooted close.

 

“Do we really _have_ to get her out?”

 

“Ironhide...”

 

“Just imagine it. We could schedule for mecha to come here and drop energon cubes to her. She would remain alive. Just like a caged, exquisite, poisonous _thing_. But alive. And getting visitors. Maybe they would even be willing to pay for the right to take pictures.”

 

For a second Optimus almost smiled, entertaining the notion of Elita-1 in a kind of zoo, getting stared at as a rare specimen, namely a _female_ cybertronian, with himself and Ironhide throwing energon chips for her to fuel with and taking pictures of her with _Reflector_ , as instantly the Prime shooed the mental image away.

 

_Autobots weren’t supposed to think things like that._

 

Giving Ironhide _the look_ , then, Optimus spoke.

 

“We _are_ getting her out of there. No matter how much I wanted to see Elita-1 go away for _good_ , I am still the Prime and supposed to _care_.” Said Optimus, sighing and observing from afar.

 

* * *

 

Observing from afar _Scavenger_ disappear in a bubbling sinkhole at the wet sand, under the watchful optics of _carrier_ , Microtron, all biolights off but _not_ recharging, was _pissed_.

 

Once he mainframe-moded, his sensors were focused into the datacable’s feelers and his optic was in a fixed position, greatly limiting his ability to see what was happening around, as such he indeed dropped into a light recharge, that lasted until the medic _left his side,_ when carrier returned with crude fuel.

 

Out of nothing, then, carrier explained how and why helicopters fly, and as far as he understood, from his far away position, the medic gave _c_ _arrier_ a scientific _thesis_ to be posted into the backcover of the _Cybertronian Medical Board’s_ journals, but the papers still have to be submitted into analysis and what the _well_ it had to do with an attack anyway, and why was Scavenger so mad??

 

Maybe the constructicon wanted to publish his own thesis too?

 

Confused and angry, EM-field now flaring in pulses, Microtron didn’t even notice the instant Shockwave approached.

 

“Microtron. I have freshly processed energon for you. I am properly fuelled above 80% and I can now indulge your very logical needs.”

 

No reply: Shockwave, standing rigidly besides the mainframe-moded mechling, flared his hand sensors open and scanned him, droning.

 

“You are not under recharge. Cease pretending.”

 

Instantly root-moding and cycling the closed optic lens wide open, he flailed a single datacable out and repeatedly poked carrier’s chestplate, red optic glowing dark crimson.

 

“You ordered me out of sight so you could _make science_ without me!! It’s not fair! I can never have any fun! I want to make science too!”

 

 _Realisation_ kicking in, Shockwave opened the purple interface panel and took from jack his modified reverse-fuelling energon line out, briefly waving it before the red giant optic of his creation, deflecting the subject.

 

“You are not ready yet to _make science_. In any of its forms.”

 

Still pissed but also _hungry_ , Microtron followed the moving hand right and left with his optic, almost wobbling, finally whispering.

 

“When will I be?”

 

“Do not worry about it now.” not sure if he meant _science_ or Science, Shockwave slowly led his left hand to his kid’s emergency fuel dump, poking it twice “You are running on 41% fuels and shall have a _full_ ration of processed energon, since I have no cubes available and your alt-mode cannot process crude oil or aviation kerosene like mine.”

 

Cycling his optic closed, he let his tanks open as _carrier_ plugged in, starting the _meal time_ , systems accusing the positive flow of energy-rich energon, his EM-field wobbling as he flailed three datacables out to hold himself standing up against Shockwave’s waist, the heliformer finally sitting on the dry sand and pulling his creation on his lap.

 

“Eww. It _tastes_ funny.”

 

Dipping his head down and meeting the giant, _glassy_ optic, Shockwave nodded.

 

“Aviation kerosene leaves residues on my systems and on my own processed energon. Not good for long therm survival but it will have to do for now. Do not purge: we cannot afford to waste anything.”

 

Microtron nodded, making himself comfortable, optic cycling closed, nearly purring as four datacables circled around carrier’s waist; Shockwave, logically missing his hacking tool, had no option but to indulge his creation since he couldn’t force him into recharge anymore, and actually brought him closer, absently caressing his camera-head as the _kid_ clicked in delight, optics glaring at the fading night, stars by now long disappeared over the ocean and under the rising sun.

 

* * *

 

Sun rising, Elita-1 squinted on her new, strange form, looking up to the beginnings of daylight seeping through the trap she was at, feeling for the unmistakable spark energy of her _bonded_ up there, and activated her comm.

 

* * *

 

Comm activated, Inferno jolted out of recharge, instantly standing up, only sparing a glance to the recharging Red Alert before he spoke.

 

“Inferno speaking.”

 

The hesitant voice on the other side of the comm replied.

 

“ _How’s Red Alert???”_

 

Passing his good hand on his face, he groaned.

 

“As well as he will ever be, _doctor._ Not thanks to you, anyway.”

 

First aid flinched on his side of the comm, as Inferno kept speaking.

 

“That’s fine. Since I now know everything, he confirmed the permanent and eventually deadly nature of his _glitch_ , and on how neither you or Ratchet can fix it without resetting his spark.”

 

First Aid hesitated, fidgeting with his hands.

 

“ _So you aren’t mad at me?”_

 

Inferno _smirked_.

 

“Oh, no. You’re a _sweetie_. I’m mad at that bonded of yours, Blades. When I put my hand and my _fire_ hose on reverse _flame-throwing_ function on him, he will _burrrn_.”

 

At that, Inferno cloud swear he hard the noise of someone tripping on his own feet, so he just smirked further and continued.

 

“Oh, yeah. With a charred sparkchamber, you’ll have to summon _Toetag_ to gather _parts_ for _Flatline_ to provide him a new body. If the spark survives.”

 

Holding his laughter as he heard First Aid scrambling to get up, he kept his cool as the audibly nervous medic spoke.

 

“ _What can I do to make sure you won’t have me recycle Blades???”_

 

Cackling, Inferno shook his head and wiped cleansing fluid from his optics with his forearm as Red Alert stirred in the berth, then rolled on his side and returned to recharge.

 

“First Aid. I’m a firefighter. Do you really think I’d _burn_ your bonded?”

 

Blinking his visor and fleeting a glance at the starfish sprawled heliformer, First meekly whispered.

 

“ _...yes?”_

 

Shaking his head, Inferno facepalmed: as if he would ever go _berserk_ and start burning people for no reason!

 

He wasn’t a decepticon, for Primus sake!

 

* * *

 

“I’m not a decepticon, for Primus sake!”

 

Knock-Out, screeching from the stasis-cuffs he was placed into (that were regulated to not let him run, and only walk very slowly, removing the strength to lift anything heavier than a wrench), made sure to get his point across.

 

“So you are saying you don’t have _anything_ with which to _repair_ Vortex?”

 

Knock-Out glared up at the towering Onslaught.

 

“I’m _not_ a chevroned doctor! My hands transform into _saws._ What kind of doctor has hands that turn into _saws_???”

 

Vortex, leading a fingertip to his mask, sniggered.

 

“A decepticon doctor!”

 

Brawl, staring at the shelves on Knock-Out’s Mod Shop, wholly agreed, inspecting closely the little red button on the main counter.

 

“What does this button do?”

 

Knock-Out then stiffened, as Hot-Rod widened his optics.

 

“No, please, whatever you do, don’t touch the red button!”

 

Knock-Out instantly _glowered_ at his racing _companion_ , who flinched at him as Brawl, EM-field large, just plain _punched_ it, Hot-Rod’s and Knock-Out’s screams filling the room.

  


* * *

 

Screams filling the room, Prowl came out of recharge full of black paint transfers, his battle computer completely online _,_ weapon-ready, taking on his surroundings.

 

Immediately fleeting a glance at Jazz, screeching and clutching against his face on the floor, he turned in time to see the lime-green and purple _decepticon_ subspacing a certain blue visor, and instantly leaving through the hole on the ground he came through, the upper part of the tunnel collapsing in rubble as he left.


	42. Left to my own devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramhorn and Perceptor join forces, Prowl exerts his authority, Soundwave provides help, and the autobot brides finally succumb to love.

Left to his own devices, trying to hide his excitement, Ramhorn, currently holding the _Triplechanger_ _Cassette_ _Project_ datapad in his mouthplates, nearly rammed against the red-plated legs of no one less than Perceptor, that happened to be searching for…

 

“I was looking for that. And for you.”

 

Looking up and _beaming,_ Ramhorn also nodded, vigorously.

 

“What a fateful coincidence then, that you were also searching for me.”

 

He knelt down to the cassettibot’s height, extending a hand.

 

“I recall you wanted to get scientifically-able, but you and I know Wheeljack, as well-intentioned as he is, will probably blow up your chassis a few times before getting it right. Do you want me to give it a try?”

 

Ramhorn nodded, handing him the datapad and immediately unsubspacing Astrotrain’s _sample_.

 

Squinting and adjusting his monocle, running a quick scan with it, Perceptor caught the vial, an awed glare in face.

 

“It will certainly do! How did you come across _this_?”

 

Ramhorn stomped on the ground three times and raised his left optic ridge, tilting his head right with a dark smirk, as Perceptor’s s monocle also glowed dark blue.

 

Apparently Astrotrain exchanged his _sample_ for help into getting revenge against Skyfire, and that was a subject at which Perceptor absolutely wouldn’t mind _helping_.

 

* * *

 

_Helping Jazz? Following after the fleeing decepticon?_

 

Torn between both _wants_ , Prowl finally threw his weapons on the ground and turned towards the saboteur.

 

“Jazz. How damaged you are?”

 

Screeching that he was _blind_ , hands covering where his visor used to be, he avoided at all costs showing his face to Prowl, who simply removed them from his face, staring.

 

Nodding in grim comprehension at the two empty sockets, crude wiring coming from inside and previously directly linked to the blue visor, now ripped apart, he stood up, Em-field flaring large and menacing for once, his battle computer starting _calculations_ for a different kind of battle.

 

He’s going to get medical aid, even if it meant blasting through the medbay’s door.

 

* * *

 

Blasting through the medbay’s door, Thundercracker dragged the screeching Starscream, intent in asking the constructicons to find who the slag _fragged_ his trinebonded, only to stare flabbergasted at the five constructicons sitting on a circle like a five-pointed star formation, drone-like, staring at nothing, completely dazed.

 

“...What the slag...”

 

Flickering his fingertips before their optics and visors, Thundercracker immediately turned to Starscream, glaring _past_ him and protecting his face as a single datacable fit against his forehead and he finally collapsed offline on the ground, the screamer turning to meet the faceplates of Soundwave and _glowering._

 

“What the _slag_ did you do to my bonded?”

 

Soundwave, just arrived, tilted his head to the right, walking in a circle around the seeker.

 

“Starscream: now _cares_ about being bonded?”

 

Stalling for a second as he recalled the leftover paint chip Thundercracke plucked from his lips, Starscream blinked.

 

“For Primus sake. Is there anything else showing???”

 

Soundwave, stoic, just stopped before the screamer, looking down at him.

 

“Soundwave: telepathically detected Starscream’s lack of sense of guilt. Thundercracker: intent in offlining all the constructicons one by one until one of them _confesses_.”

 

Starscream, unblinking, briefly recalled how he rode in reverse-cybercow, wings at full display for the physically bound _Hook_ to admire, Soundwave picking telepathically on the memory sequence, EM-field flaring satisfied, as the seeker finally shrieked.

 

“Fine!!! So I interfaced Hook!! He said _no_ but his _spike_ didn’t! Technically that counts as consent! I’m not the only one at fault. Besides, why do you even _care_?”

 

Dipping his mask in a nod, Soundwave raised a second datacable, hovering it before Starscream’s optics, slowly.

 

“Soundwave: has already removed _memories_ from Hook, for a price. Has just erased Thundercracker’s memories of loose, lime-green paint chip. Offers to do same for Starscream.”

 

Starscream, immediately glaring at the dazed Hook, swallowed dry.

 

Primus only knew what Soundwave _asked_ the medic in return, and Starscream was damned if he wouldn’t have to pay a too high price for it.

 

“What would you possibly want from me??”

 

* * *

 

“What would I possibly want from you?”

 

Hot-Spot, currently dejectedly sitting on the Rec Room and having his morning energon with Streetwise and Groove, looked up to the stern faceplates of Prowl: what else would he want from _them_ , given the circumstances?

 

“I mean, Blades put us out of the bay. He’s the problem, not our ‘Aid!”

 

Having applied a quick mesh over the place where Jazz’ _visor_ used to be, for the energon to stop leaking, the saboteur tatted and scooted closer, clutching against him and actually _whining_ , as the SIC did his best to ignore the _hug_ and coldly replied to the protectobot.

 

“You’ll make your _insane_ helicopter open the medbay for _me_ then. A _decepticon_ infiltrated the Ark, stole my TIC’s _sight_ for no apparent reason, and now he’s literally running _blind_.”

 

* * *

 

Running blindly away from the wailing banshees down on old Polyhex, Nautica and Firestar made sure to hide underground and barricade the building’s entrance out.

 

As well fuelled as they were, compared to the _empties_ , not to mention their gigantic, purple, high-grade cube with a fancy bow over it, a gift from the _Mighty_ _Shockwave_ , they knew they would be an easy target were they found.

 

Sending a distress signal to the other female autobots, Firestar hoped they would be rescued anytime.

 

Damn crazy Lawyercon! As if Firestar would let herself be beheaded by the _knighting_ sword. Old sod must have been too drunk to boot!

 

“Firestar.”

 

“What!!!”

 

Firestar spat, her thoughts getting interrupted as Nautica lunged against her, viciously punching her chestplates.

 

“It’s all your fragging fault!!!”

 

Firestar blinked in surprise as she held the purple female’s wrists, which didn’t prevent the caminian from still trying to hit her, still screaming.

 

“If you hadn’t forced the issue, insisting on officially bonding, we wouldn’t be in this mess! Why the slag couldn’t you be happy with an informal deepening of the _amica_ bond into _conjunx_ just like everyone does anyway since every single fragging _priest_ is gone? Why couldn’t we have stayed on Caminus, a much more civilised place than this blasted rock? Do you have any idea on how much I hate you now and...”

 

Firestar instantly shut up her complaints with a fierce, overcharged kiss, instantly straddling her lap, arms languidly locking behind the other’s neck, as slowly the shocked expression in her purple companion’s faded, melting under the embrace and the charge-crackling flow.

 

* * *

 

Crackling charge flowing through his frame, Ratchet onlined in a jolt, lunging against the first thing he saw and vice gripping against the heavy pede close to his face.

 

“Chief Medical Officer. Finally you are out of recharge. I took the liberty of opening your emergency fuel dump and filling your ambulance tanks with gasoline.”

 

Sitting on the sand, warm in a _good_ way from the petrol slowly getting processed in his systems, he tried to get up.

 

“Couldn’t you wait for me to properly awake first?”

 

Literally shaking the sand off his plating, Ratchet finished getting on his pedes, looking slightly down at his _master_ , who droned.

 

“Scavenger was here. He informed me that Soundwave is still giving chase.”

 

Looking around and finding only Microtron absently running in the sand and playing with the seawaves, Ratchet snorted: he did remember getting literally snatched out of _master’s_ back by a greenish frame, and for once he was _glad_ he had never installed any _knotting_ mods on his frame.

 

“Don’t you fear Scavenger might reveal _your_ location?”

 

“Scavenger loyally joined the Decepticons after me.”

 

Shockwave not-replied, as if it explained _everythin_ _g_.

 

“Loyal enough not to _tattle_?” Ratchet teased.

 

“Loyal enough to allow me to install mindproof-reading on him immediately before he joined. Soundwave never got a true reading of his mind, and that had been my _parting_ gift for him. He requested to _keep_ the memories of _me_ from _before_.”

 

“Before the Institute.” Ratchet supplied.

 

Shockwave nodded, Microtron giggling and throwing seawater up his own frame in the distance.

 

“I was no longer the same _Shockwave_ he met back in the time I was a mercurial-tempered senator, yet he would cling on to me, even after I became my logical, improved self, and thus I was logically obliged to end our relations.”

 

Ratchet nodded, feeling a slight pang of jealously at imagining Shockwave as someone capable of _loving_.

 

“So, not only I let him keep _our_ memories by making his mind unreadable, since he cherished them so, I made sure to include him in the formation of Devastator. He is an emotional creature and requires constant _connection_ , so it would only be logical to _gift_ him five individuals with which he could eventually bond and maybe even _illogically love._ ”

 

Ratchet blinked in surprise, sniggering.

 

“How uncharacteristically _kind_ of you to _care_ for another being’s emotional well-being, _master._ ”

 

Shockwave stared at his creation, unreadable.

 

“As I say, I can be _very indulgent._ Keeping Scavenger sane and useful was my main objective. Know that the making of _Devastator_ greatly benefited the Cause, with the added benefit of me keeping Scavenger close, as a permanent, loyal, dedicated _source_ of high-quality materials for my labs and experiments.”

 

 _Why wasn't he surprised_ , Ratchet shook his head, immediately snarking.

 

“Like _donating_ certain fluids.”

 

“As I said, an ever useful source of _materials._ In all of its forms.”

 

Before the Chief Medical Officer could snark further, the scientist walked to the sea and started scrubbing the sand-caked grime away.

 

“You should wash as well. I sent Scavenger on an errand of utmost importance. He is to retrieve me an adequate _visor_ for me to get the cortical psychic patch working: we waste too much energy with _slave bonding_ , and the functionality of my hacking tool is paramount to the improvement of our survival. Meanwhile, we shall be on the run.”


	43. Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyfire muses, Microtron remembers, Ironhide wants, and Elita climbs up.

On the run, from both factions, Skyfire and Blast-Off had left the last atmospheric layers in search of a quiet place to spend their time together, currently having landed on the side of the moon turned to planet Earth, now contemplating the darkened continents with its millions of spots of light blinking like stars outlying their shapes.

  


As they sat in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder, head resting on Blast-Off’s shoulder, leaning lazily against him, Skyfire made sure to get himself comfortable.

  


Skyfire, having finally found the only Vosian that not only understood him (although not agreeing) on his reasons for choosing the autobots, but also interfaced like a pro and treated him like a gentlemech, snorted.

  


Not only Bast-Off was spec-to-spec with his own _panels_ , a true _fit both ways_ , but also he had the ability to undergo space-fearing bonding times, and for this fact alone, Skyfire felt in _heaven._

  


If only he could get Blast-Off to defect from the decepticons _and_ the combaticons, then he could sport his superior arm-candy and make a load of autobots envious, specially a certain _microscope_ who thinks he’s a scientist just because he’s got the alt-mode of a laboratory instrument!

  


So typically _functionist_ of him.

  


Scowling at his memory of the _entitled_ Scientist feeling superior to everyone and just pedantically correcting Wheeljack every single time the inventor _blows up_ or blows up with a project, Skyfire recalled on how he was often deemed no better than a _taxi_ by the autobots, most not even acknowledging he was a scientist too!

  


Why didn’t Skyfire chose Astrotrain, then? A shuttle is a shuttle, right?

  


Skyfire instantly rolled his optics, recalling the main decepticon _cab_ : Astrotrain’s single _sin_ was the fact that apparently _Perceptor_ had an interest in his triplechanging mode.

  


If Perceptor wanted it, then Perceptor wasn’t going to have it!

  


As such, it was Skyfire’s duty, out of spite, to _get_ the decepticon’s files _and_ keep them away from his fellow _scientist_ , afterall.

  


* * *

  


Away from his fellow _scientist_ , followed by the curious tapeling, Perceptor entered the lab, choosing an empty working bench and sitting at it, Ramhorn sitting on the feet of his stool, excited.

  


He was finally getting his triplechanging mode and he couldn’t be more excited!

  


As Perceptor pulled out of subspace Astrotrain’s CNA sample, safely locked and conserved within Shockwave’s self-vacuum-sealing vial _(note to self, replicate materials on tube later)_ , storing it into a locked up, safe shelf, he turned to his little helper, looking down and extending him both hands.

  


“Up here. If you _really_ want to be a scientist that won’t simply blow up things, then I’ll take you under my _scope_.”

  


Opening his left hip panels, Perceptor unspooled a red, biolight glowing cable, showing its connecting end to the symbiont.

  


“Do you know what it is?”

  


Ramhorn shook his head.

  


“This is a Scientific Hardline Connection cable. Every Science-caste mech has one version, according to its original function. It’s rumoured that Shockwave exchanged his standard cable for a sinister, evil version that not only displays and allows for the exchange of knowledge, but also permits him of _hacking_ a mech at will, altering memories, invading databanks, installing viruses… it’s said he has adapted ancient slave coding to work with his _tool_ , but no evidence was found yet.”

  


At the mention of _Shockwave, hacking and slavery_ , Ramhorn nearly jumped out of his plating and ran away, getting frozen to the spot and widening his optics in near despair, yet unable to flee.

  


Taken by the scientist in his hands and lifted up, Ramhorn fully expected to be hacked, with not a single one of his battle protocols flaring to life, which was _weird_ and only served to panic him further.

  


Before the rhino could protest, however, Perceptor, feeling for the little EM-field flaring in irregular waves, minutely held the symbiont in arms, very close to his glass chestplate, and couldn’t help a _flutter_ of his own _spark_ as he placed the scared Ramhorn over the working bench.

  


Staring a second too long at the now wide-opticed symbiont, Perceptor immediately dismissed the feeling and microscope-moded, mass-shifting to a size at which the Rhino would be able to make use of his alt-mode, the Triplechanging Project datapad fitting under his focusing lenses.

  


“Since you are _my_ _apprentice_ I will not overwhelm you with info via hardline, so do not expect one. Instead, I’ll let you personally _see_ my mind and upper processors working as I extricate the project’s details.”

  


Perceptor moved his scope to the level of Ramhorn’s sight, as the symbiont, relieved for not getting hacked, glad for being considered officially Perceptor’s apprentice, and feeling completely, utterly safe by his side, couldn’t help an excited squeal, closing one optic and approaching.

  


* * *

  
  


One optic approaching the degraded wooden boat half-sunk in the sand, Microtron lifted it up with the use of three combined datacables, a fourth one probing underneath it: he was bouncing full with the complete charge of Shockwave’s processed fluids, unstoppable on the beachside!

  


Giggling stupidly as a crab crawled up his datacable, uncaring to his surroundings and shaking it vigorously as the tiny beast managed to avoid getting thrown out and climbed up his back, picking at his transformation seams and shifting from his back to his chestplate, Microtron was lost in happiness.

  


As the crab moved down his abdominal plating, a sudden flash memory of Vortex ripping the plating out and standing too close, attempting to claw his way _inside_ his emergency fuel intake _instantly_ hit him full force.

  


Lunging the rotten boat away from him into the ocean as it splashed away, EM-field flaring wide and crushing the crab with the feelers from a datacable alone, the dark goo from its insides reaching his taste sensors, irked in more than one way, Microtron swung the cable to the right and the left, repeatedly hitting the remains of the crab against the sand, disgusted and literally blurting static, stomping, and without any semblance of coordination flailing erratically the other eleven datacables on his back.

  


As Ratchet blinked, frozen on spot at the nightmarish sight, Shockwave, in root mode, just walked at his creation, the already repaired and unbent paddles clicked on his back, watching reactionless for five seconds his creation _snap._

  


Concluding Microtron’s behaviour was not conductive to their survival, Shockwave intervened.

  


“Microtron. You are being wasteful of my processed energon. Cease fretting.”

  


Microtron, suddenly snatched out of his murderous-stance, stopped, glaring right at his goo-covered, sand-caked datacable, instantly the flailing ones on his back recoiling as he mainframe-moded and powered down in obviously fake recharge.

  


Shockwave, satisfied at obtaining the expected result, even if he knew the kid was _not_ under recharge, uncaring to the reasons why his creation reacted so, nodded approvingly at the obedience, turning to the stunned Chief Medical Officer.

  


“Vehicle-mode. I am fitting Microtron inside you and will haul you up to the next fuel source, which should not be far from here according to my calculations. My creation wasted energon with his useless and incomprehensible fretting and my own reserves will not stand without frequent refuelling.”

  


Out of shock, sighing, Ratchet, a sudden pang in his spark, did, opening his back doors wide as Shockwave simply shoved his creation in and closed the doors, unsubspacing his hauling platform (actually one of the few things that fits his minimal subspace, being part of the alt-mode) and observing, detached, Ratchet roll over it and park, then finally mounted his hook and chain over it, helicopter-moding and going into a brief reconnaissance flight.

  


* * *

  


Under reconnaissance flight, briefly thinking he saw the beachside showing in the distance, Laserbeak started recording, following behind and slightly to the right side of Ravage (flying with his hipside thrusters before her) with Buzzsaw following on the left, the three in triangle formation just like a proper seeker _trine._

  


Glad for the chance to leave base and sharpen her _eagle_ sight, Laserbeak chirped happily at Buzzsaw, who grumpily ignored her: stupid cheerful, Megatron-devoted, autobotish _thing_!

  


Buzzsaw, having never received a single glimmer of spark-energy from Lord Megatron except for the one needed to first generate his spark, knowing from his earliest memories that it had been solely Shockwave who complied with his carrier’s needs and made sure to supply the adequate amount of energy, didn’t feel any particular attachment to Lord Megatron, except for the second-hand loyalty to Soundwave.

  


Obviously, he had been scolded many times for his opinions: it didn’t make him feel any less sullen. The fact that the Slagmaker had chronic pain during sparkmerge was a convenient explanation, logical even, enough to convince both carrier and Shockwave, but it didn’t diminish the fact that Buzzsaw felt singed out.

  


To make things worse, _carrier_ didn’t share with him the reasons for them to track Shockwave and the autobot slave who spark-napped Microtron; all Buzzsaw could gather was the uneasiness that Ravage would exudate at each mention of Soundwave wanting to get Microtron _home_ , and the fact that Lord Megatron’s other creation would eventually be part of the cohort.

  


Having a slight grudge against his own _sire_ for not feeling like _sacrificing_ comfort for his own rearing back then when he was just a tiny binary system within carrier, Buzzsaw, having grown old enough to make a tiny memory pocket for himself, away from carrier and his siblings, couldn’t help favouring Shockwave just a tiny bit, if only for doing his duty as bonded, allowing Buzzsaw proper spark development, and for that he was grateful.

  


Shaking his head at having had need of discovering on his own how to minimally shield memories and thoughts, he concluded that at some point in development every single symbiont-bound creation ends up figuring out how to live within the cohort, at the same time remaining as an individual capable of surviving, and thinking on his own, finally smiling.

  


Of course he wouldn’t question _carrier_ : Soundwave was indisputably their _superior_ , but Buzzsaw knew very well which _sire_ (the one who merely gave him his first spark energy, or the one who followed through the centuries powering his development) he would choose over the other, should this day ever come.

  


* * *

  


_Which would be chosen over the other, should this day ever come?_

  


Ironhide, very aware Elita-1 was _sparkbonded_ to Optimus Prime, had a faint fear that should Optimus ever have to chose between rescuing him or her, even hating her struts, he would take the female.

  


Her demise would certainly mean the Prime’s own, so it was a no-brainer.

  


Ironhide sighed heavily, sagging as he watched Optimus Prime unsubspace his trailer, then take from inside a huge, very safe and thick sailing camel-rope, holding one tip and throwing the other inside the hole where Elita-1 was, screaming down to her.

  


“Elita. I know you’re down there. Can you take this rope and hold it?”

  


As the Prime’s voice echoed down the hole, Ironhide, sullen, observing the rescue, instantly imagined himself _sparkbonded_ to the Prime, immediately shaking the notion away since it would mean getting also bonded to _Elita-1._

  


Not to mention that the Prime entering a decepticon-like trinebond would certainly be the ultimate Heresy.

  


With no priests left to care, however, Ironhide smirked widely, a little evil idea brewing in mind.

  


Maybe First Aid, as a medic, knew something, anything, on _breaking_ a sparkbond without killing the mechs involved, afterall.

  


* * *

  


_How to sever a sparkbond without killing the mechs involved?_

  


Soundwave, currently entertaining this age-old question, very aware that officially sparkbonds were forever, actually imagined himself finding a way of rupturing Shockwave’s bond to them.

  


Afterall, how did he intend to properly dispose of Shockwave if he risked dying _and_ killing Lord Megatron in the process?

  


Who would fight for the Cause, who would risk his spark for them all, who would be their _Leader_?

  


If only Soundwave could inform his beloved leader of all the times he intervened with Lord Megatron’s own choices just to make sure only the best decisions were taken.

  


For an instant absently glaring up the most protected shelf of his TF Toys collection, Soundwave couldn’t help fleeting a glance at the mint-in-box Deluxe BW Megatron toy, wishing things had run out differently, sighing heavily.

  


* * *

  


Sighing heavily, Elita-1 slammed her defective, useless comm against the ground, the instant a heavy camel rope fell over her head.

  


Cursing, she instantly put her brave new appendages to work and found out it would be much easier to get out of the hole in her _new_ shape, smirking and expertly climbing up, the light slowly warming her faceplates, _dying_ to see her _beloved_ _sweetspark_.


	44. Sweet spark of mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Aid takes responsibility, Knock-Out deflects blame, Skywarp worries, Microtron tries to understand and Elita-1 makes sure Optimus suffers.

Light slowly warming his faceplates, First Aid expertly climbed up his bonded.

  


“Sweetspark? Beloved?”

  


Blades never awoke, still to all effects rattling and stalling his rotors, sprawled on his front at the berth and First Aid sighed, settled by his side and angled towards the back of his head, near the audials he had just whispered at: damn heavy recharger.

  


He had to rectify that.

  


Feeling _responsible_ and ready, First Aid briefly nuzzled his mask at the left side of the heliformer’s helm, visor glowing indigo blue.

  


Climbing off the berth and stretching his hydraulics, still facing his beloved Blades, First Aid nearly swooned, running his highly sensitive fingertips at the berth’s mesh, gripping it lightly, quite enamoured at the sight for two seconds, then instantly clawed the mesh and pulled the soft, pliant red covers off the berth.

  


Jolted awake out of his dreams, literally pulled out of the berth with the mesh into the cold, unforgiving ground, the heliformer blinked stupidly, rubbing his aft as he stood up.

  


“Primus, First, what the slag is on? Are the decepticons attacking??”

  


Summoning all his willpower, visor glowing royal-blue, flaring his EM-field wide, First Aid unsubspaced his _wrench_ and held it with his right hand, slowly moving it up and down, hitting it against his open left palm, and speaking.

  


“ _Nurse-in-training_ Blades. As the Prime-appointed _Chief Medical Officer_ , I say the _strike_ has gone too long and as such, I order you to _open the medbay._ ”

  


Blades, flummoxed, gaped.

  


First Aid, determined and very proud of himself for actually exerting authority, for once understanding _Ratchet_ , pointed his left hand to the door, menacingly holding his wrench up.

  


“Now. I gave you an order! Get your head out of your aft and _go_!!!”

  


“...Aid??”

  


_Who exchanged my sweet Aid for an evil version of himself?_

  


Instantly taken out of his thoughts by a certain _wrench_ getting thrown into his head, Blades yelped and instantly scurried away.

  


* * *

  


Scurrying away from the overcharged, purple cyclops, pondering that _Shockwave_ must be some kind of _drone_ to not fall under recharge after having drunk so much energon, Judgelaw inched his way to the scrren-faced drone, a heavy cybertronium pipe in hands, ready to knock it out cold.

  


The dreaded _protocol-bot_ , apparently very engrossed with a datapad doing whatever it was drones do, had something he wanted, and he’s gonna get it, one way or another!

  


Thrumming in excitement as he approached the drone, currently revising _Mighty Shockwave’s_ list of things to do with Megatron’s Energon, Judgelaw wasted no time in jumping over the drone’s back and getting ready to swing the pipe over his screen-face, squinting as at First’s ‘nape’, there was a huge, purple, ON/OFF button, ready and waiting to be pushed.

  


* * *

  


_Ready_ and waiting for the worse, Knock-Out cursed as the walls on his shop rotated against themselves, all other mecha present in the room gaping.

  


Whispering a very low _Holy Primus_ , Hot Rod had no words to describe the sight, as Vortex’ red visor glowed and Brawl nearly bounced around the room, awed.

  


Onslaught, watching his two subordinates gawk at the shelves, gave a single pat in the red medic’s right shoulder, walking around the room as well, nodding approvingly.

  


“You have _taste_ , doc.”

  


Knock-Out, beet-red in _shame_ , and glad his plates were already red, feigned innocence and stared at his fingertips.

  


“I swear I have no idea what all these _spikes_ and _valves_ are doing in this room, hiding behind the rotated walls.”

  


* * *

  


The walls rotated in the room as Megatron groaned, a heavy helm-ache brewing behind his optics.

  


_He_ _couldn’t believe he had fallen under recharge like this._

  


Out of nothing a huge VOP altered the fabric of space and sucked the air around a spot in the room as the tyrant was volleyed out of his throne into the panels, a tiny voice finally hitting his audials.

  


“Lord Megatron?”

  


Slowly trying to stand up, dizzy, the tyrant felt a warm hand touching his left shoulder, meeting Skywarp’s worried faceplates.

  


About to lash but recalling Skywarp was the loyal seeker, Megatron just batted the seeker’s hand away, slowly standing up.

  


“What’s it you want, Skywarp? I’m in a terrible mood.”

  


Skywarp fidgeted with his hands, now staring up at his leader, leaning against one console for support.

  


“I… Starscream and Thundercracker won’t answer my comms, and our trinebond is muted from their ends.”

  


Megatron, having his own shared of problems with a particular _scientist_ and his own trinebond, walking past the seeker, sitting on his throne and scowling.

  


“Well, as you can see neither of them is here.”

  


“Starscream’s a glitch, but TC never mutes me. I’m worried.”

  


Megatron sighed heavily. Since when he sparksits seekers?

  


“You worry too much. They must be unconscious after _fragging_. Sooner or later they’ll show up littered with paint transfers.”

  


Skywarp, nodding weakly, still _hurt_ from being muted.

  


“M’a feeling lonely. Can I stay here until they return?”

  


Megatron _glowered_ : Did he look like good company???

  


Skywarp gave him a huge puppy glare, then.

  


“...please?”

  


“...fine.”

  


Pumping his fist up in the air, screaming _Yes!_ , Skywarp all but launched himself in the tyrant’s _lap_ , crooning and clicking like a newly released newspark, almost dozing in the light swing.

  


* * *

  


Almost dozing in the light swing, right and left, of the hauling platform he was parked at, Ratchet was jolted awake by the light probing of datacable _feelers_ into his inner panels, sending a definite _ping_ and requesting a hardline connection.

  


Surprised at the fact Microtron did not just hack his way in, like a creation of Shockwave was supposed to, Ratchet upped up his firewalls and pinged in positive, letting open a minor comm port, the dark grey datacable ghosting over his panels and finally inserting its feelers in.

  


Warmth slowly filling his upper processors as the mechling’s systems and sparkpulse synced with his own, very much unlike Shockwave’s _cortical psychic patch_ , Ratchet for an instant pondered on what it would be like to have an orbiting creation rotating around one’s own spark, getting immediately questioned.

  


_How do I obtain the most representative n for the cohort now that I am forbidden of going to Soundwave’s cohort of cassetticons for help?_

  


Squinting, Ratchet for a brief second pondered if Microtron had by any means listened to…

  


_How do I calculate the variables meant to be put into the charts?_

  


He had! He had!!! The sleek glitch had!!!

  


_What’s p, and why is it important that it results less than 0.001, when more is always better than less?_

  


Ratchet suddenly choked on air, almost turning his sirens _on_ in exasperation.

  


_Where else besides the Cybertronian Medical Board can I send an abstract for a very thorough analysis?_

  


He immediately flared his lights in shock, as the mechling continued.

  


_Why the preference for publishing on the back? Shouldn’t the front cover give more visibility?_

  


Feeling suddenly hot at the memory of Shockwave’s blue folds glistening from _behind_ , Ratchet would have fanned himself weren’t his hands locked in his alt-mode.

  


_Is giving lip service to the board a requirement? I hope not. I don’t have lips._

  


Fairly sure his faceplates were autobot-red by now, Ratchet was instantly glad for being in vehicle-mode, as Microtron took it as implicit permission to keep asking.

  


_Carrier seemed very satisfied with your theories._ _Can you theorise for me too?_

  


_Primus_ , thought the medic, _make him stop._

  


* * *

  


_Primus, make her stop!!!_

  


Screeching, Optimus Prime fell on his back as an eight-legged _thing_ came out of the sinkhole through the camel-rope, launching itself right over him.

  


“What the _frag_!!!”

  


Big enough to lock its legs all over the Prime’s chestplates, shoulders and battlemask, the mechanical _arachnid,_ much like an Alien Facial Parasite, would have suffocated him had he any need of breathing.

  


“Ironhide! Help!!!!”

  


Ironhide, an unsubspaced chaingun already in hand, had to override his battle protocols: shooting the _thing_ would have meant shooting the Prime!

  


Not to mention _killing_ the thing would have meant killing the Prime.

  


“It’s all your fault, Optimus Orion Pax Prime!!!”

  


Elita-1, sporting her shiny new mechanical black-widow mode, hydraulics whirring under her chrome struts, pinkish plates shining under the sun, made sure to nip and mercilessly attack each sensitive seam in the Prime’s armour, Optimus trying and failing to get out of her grasp, writhing on the ground.

  


“Release me, you insane glitch!!! Is this how you thank the only mech on Earth that would even remotely bother to come at your rescue???”

  


Elita, knowing very well he only came after her because of their sparkbond, opened her chelicerae wide, approaching his face, corrosive fluid dripping from within and reaching his battlemask, bringing greenish, hot smoke up.

  


“If you hadn’t gone _out_ to get fragged by your watchdog, _this_ would never have happened!”

  


“If you had just installed a _spike mod_ when we bonded, like I _asked_ , I might have never gotten to the point of _despair_ that I did!!!”

  


“Then you should have bonded _Arcee_ , at least she had been a _mech_ before and might appreciate the _change_!”

  


Shaking his head, Ironhide sighed, the Prime and the scurrilous spider catfighting on the ground as the arms specialist, blinking stupidly, merely sat back, _watching_.

  


* * *

  


 

Watching the drone First power down silently, screen face off, arms flung immobile by its sides, Swindle blinked as Judgelaw rummaged through the drone’s subspace, pulling out the remote control for the spacebridge and raising it for the con mech to see, winking.

  


Purple optics glowing, watching intently the Lawyercon rummage further through the drone’s subspace pocket, Swindle cheered the instant the Lawyercon gathered the energon keys for his energon cage, finally walking close, hips swaying lightly and rotating the energon keychain around his index.

  


“So, Swindle.” the all-black plated mech rested close to the cage, his decepticon-red optics lingering on the con mech’s frame “What are you willing to _give_ for me to free you of this cage?”


	45. The Birdcage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shockwave indulges, Scavenger remembers, First Aid worries and Ramhorn dreams.

The _caged_ platform landed with a muffled thud, suddenly, against the broken trunks of the thinner trees, disappearing under the green canopies, as without finesse Shockwave root-moded and pushed Ratchet away from the platform, immediately subspacing it and droning before the medic could complain.

 

“I detected _Buzzsaw’s_ spark frequency flaring wide _and_ approaching.”

 

All protest dying from his vocalisers, Ratchet, on his side in ambulance-mode, slowly root-moded holding the _mainframe_ -moded Microtron under one arm, a single datacable connected to a comm port, as Shockwave tilted his head, optics zooming on their connection in silent enquiry.

 

“Microtron requested connection, started making questions about _making science_ , I had no idea under which rock to crawl, remaining mute, so he finally got bored and drifted into recharge. _Real_ recharge. I confirmed the readings.”

 

Shockwave nodded, for once _impressed_ , taking on his own creation in arms and setting the recharging _mainframe_ aside, optic facing away where he intended to sit, finally looking around the green _hell_ of the Amazon rainforest, tree canopies taller than most cybertronians, making up for good cover as the rain started falling from the darkening sky.

 

“The next source of crude fuel is not far away, but with Soundwave’s _creations_ searching for us, I cannot get there for now.”

 

Ratchet nodded, agreeing, as Shockwave inched to the medic’s side, pulling him down as well, both now sitting shoulder to shoulder as the rain poured down.

 

“I am positive resetting the progress bars now will allow us to postpone the deadline for the next synch in a full day, which will leave us the _night_ free to get into the fuel site in time to refuel before dawn.”

 

Raising an optic ridge, Ratchet glared at his master for a full minute until realisation kicked in.

 

How could Shockwave even _think_ of interfacing in a moment like this??

 

Before he could _snark_ however, a hole opened on the ground and Scavenger came out, a triumphant EM-field flaring wide, with mud, broken roots and rotting leaves littering his frame.

 

“Commander Shockwave.”

 

He knelt down before the sitting Shockwave, all knightly, extending the blue visor he ripped off Jazz’ face, with both hands palms up, the optic wiring still hanging from it.

 

Running a wireless diagnostic, Ratchet gaped as he found out from _where_ the visor came, about to snap the instant Shockwave took the visor in hands, inspecting it.

 

Shaking his head and pondering they would all be doomed, because you do not mess with _Jazz_ , since it would mean messing with _Prowl_ , he couldn’t help staring as Shockwave unsubspaced the _cortical psychic_ patch, disconnected it from himself and rolled the visor in his hands twice, slowly, finally turning on his back to face Ratchet.

 

“Chief Medical Officer: your new orders are for you to make this visor compatible with the _cortical psychic patch._ You will not turn the _patch_ ineffective or tamper or damage it in any way, much less lose it from sight or allow any other mech to take it away from your possession. You are to deliver it to me and only me, with the visor, even if you are unable to put them together, with no forms of tampering whatsoever. There will be no changes to my orders, not even from myself. Any change of orders for me shall be treated with suspicion. In case you are attacked and risk offlining, the patch should be destroyed. You shall begin working immediately. Is it understood?”

 

Ratchet blinked, finding no plausible loopholes in the orders, as Shockwave instantly ignored him, turning to the constructicon.

 

“You have done excellent work as usual, Constructicon Scout Scavenger.”

 

Attention picked, the constructicon looked up, hopeful, as Shockwave stepped close.

 

“How do you wish to be rewarded? I have no leftover energon cubes in my person.”

 

Scavenger, running his visor up and down the _commander’s_ shell, fidgeted with his hands, managing to blurt undignified static, shaking his head and sagging.

 

“I… it would be taking _advantage_.”

 

Tilting his head to the right, Shockwave stepped close, under the angry, horrified optics of the chief medical officer, looking down to the knelt constructicon and extending a hand to pick on debris littering his frame, absently taking the leaves and roots away from the grime caked seams, as following the black hand picking on dirt with his visor, Scavenger held tight his EM-field, rooted to the spot.

 

* * *

 

 

Rooted on spot, Prowl _blinked_ as he stared at the prompt, open, _functioning_ Medbay.

 

 _Mean_ _satisfaction_ didn’t even start describing what he felt at actually seeing _Blades_ get ordered around by a very _determined_ First Aid.

 

“Prowler?” asked Jazz, clutched against his arm “What’s on??”

 

Blades groaned carrying boxes of spare parts to the deposit, as a very _smug_ looking First Aid came close, visor darting to _Jazz_ , panic brewing behind his plates as he pulled the technician’s specs to the forefront of his mind.

 

“Holy Primus, _who_ did that???” he instantly snatched Blades close, a box of spare hands falling to the ground, the hands bouncing away all over the place “Get me all the visors you can find!!”

 

He shoved Blades away as he hurried to pick on the saboteur and literally threw him into a slab, Prowl nearly growling at the sight of the helplessly yelping _patient_ , the medic transforming one hand into a welder and the other into a pince, ready to _go_.

 

* * *

 

Ready to _go_ , Swindle was tackled mid-air by the lawyercon, who had just freed him off the cage at the promise of…

 

“I’m not going to pay you _any_ percentage of my sale’s fees! Neither now, nor ever! Never!!!”

 

Shaking his head and seating the combaticon on his lap, a hand firmly clasped in Swindle’s waist and keeping him in place, claws digging on plating and turning Swindle’s face towards the silent, drone-like _Mighty Shockwave_ absently reading a datapad not very far away, the lawyercon whispered against the con mech’s audials.

 

“Oh, Swindle. What’s a 20% fee from every single _business_ transaction you do, for life, in exchange for a lifetime not being able to sell _anything_. I don’t think _Mighty_ _Shockwave_ would let you keep your business at the same time he keeps you around as a subject for his _ex_ _periment_ _s_.”

 

Swindle writhed on Judgelaw’s lap, where he had been adjusted nicely and neatly against the cold, all-black plating, heat pooling down his own plates.

 

“Why can’t you ask for something more acceptable, like my _aft_ , than _extorting_ my hard earned _shanix_?”

 

The lawyercon spared a glance at Shockwave, blissfully ignoring his surroundings, then flipped his hapless victim to the ground, instantly straddling him with a slow hip-roll, hands ghosting over Swindle’s chestplates and moving _down_ , the lawyercon’s all-black mesh toga flowing lightly as he strutted both shoulders, framing his back and aft and covering up the con mech’s thighs.

 

“Oh, Swindle. You misunderstand me. Be generous for once. _Give_ it to me. I _love_ the feeling of loads and loads of _hard_ earned _liquid_ dividends cashing deep into my _vault_.”

 

* * *

 

Vaulted deep into the rainforest, under the protection of the canopies, Ratchet did his best to keep working on repurposing _Jazz_ ’ visor with Shockwave’s _cortical_ _psychic_ _patch_ , vowing not to _look_.

 

Shockwave was obviously willing to _pay_ for the visor with his own _shell_.

 

All Scavenger apparently wanted however was a _heavy_ hugging and petting session, in the name of _old times_ when both had been autobots.

 

It should have been a relief to hear that.

 

Only it wasn’t.

 

Scavenger held Shockwave like he were _everything_ , literally sweeping the heliformer off his feet and right into his lap, squeezing so hard he would certainly leave _paint-transfers_ afterwards, nuzzling his mask against the scientist’s face and neck, almost _purring_ in delight, and seeing this absolutely _hurt_.

 

Rationally, Ratchet knew his master is an amoral _glitch_ , with no true attachment to anyone but his own motifs and logic, a true _psychopath_ in the purest sense of the word, seeing everyone as a tool, as an end for a means.

 

They why did he want to be in Scavenger’s place, even though nothing Shockwave was doing could be even remotely be considered _true_? He should be loathing the fake display, not envying the constructicon for being the recipient to it.

 

Ratchet, absolutely furious and getting _errors_ directly from the slave-coding in his own HUD for currently hating his _master_ , tweaked with slightly more force than needed into the visor’s wiring, redirecting the pathways to keep the glass clear enough to allow for Shockwave’s true optics to see through, trying to make sure the _cortical psychic patch_ ’s functions would be displayed into Shockwave’s systems once it was properly installed back.

 

He should be the one there holding the bastard! He, not the stupid lug! He!…

 

“Chief Medical Officer.”

 

Jolted out of his thoughts, holding his EM-field tight, he turned slowly to contemplate his lime-green not-from-interface paint-transfer-littered master.

 

“How is the progress on the _visor_ going? It is not a difficult task.”

 

Ratchet then spat.

 

“If it’s so easy, why didn’t you overtake the task then?”

 

He threw both visor and patch by Shockwave’s feet, as the scientist followed the motion.

 

“Because I had to indulge Scavenger as a reward for good service and you might have been able to complete it in the meantime. I see now I was wrong.”

 

Shockwave knelt down to take the patch and the visor in hands, storing both into his arm-mounted non-subspace storage.

 

“ _Indulge.”_ Ratchet scowled, jealous “I wonder _what_ did you truly treat your dumb _favourite_ with!”

 

Shockwave glared blankly between the lime-green paint-transfers and his own shell, not-replying.

 

“Scavenger is an emotional creature and requested physical touch: for that, he even gave me energon.”

 

He unsubspaced a full-to-the-brim energon cube, offering it to Ratchet, who glared in dismay.

 

“He _paid_ you with one full cube. For _hugs._ ”

 

Shockwave glared between the cube, his dirty shell, and the medic.

 

“Actually, for _giving_ me hugs and _nuzzling_ against me. I was given five full cubes that I intended to share with you later.”

 

The medic glowered and Shockwave, unaffected, subspaced the cube: Ratchet snapped.

 

“Primus! You… got _paid_ for paying him for his service! I can’t believe it! You opportunistic, overpriced... _huggable_ shareware!! No wonder Soundwave is _hunting_ you! He must be finally done with the millennia of cheating!! I _hate_ you!! How unfair that it is tha Scavenger _still_ loves you?!!!”

 

Shockwave stood immobile for three seconds, unable to relate to the insult, not a flicker in his EM-field.

 

“I do not understand why, since I was the one to end our association in first place, and he should have been mad at me for life, but Scavenger seems to still harbour illogical _feelings_ for me. I merely used his misplaced affection as a means to an end when I made sure to tell him the undeniable truth that I was under risk of offlining due to lack of fuel and suggestively offered to take on any form of sustenance he deemed granting me.”

 

Ratchet, furious, scowled from his sitting position, as Shockwave kept droning.

 

“Any decepticon would have _used_ the other as _transfluid_ _dump_ before such an offer, event that I was expecting and even anticipating, but Scavenger illogically surprised me taking from his own stock the five cubes and handing me them, saying he could always coax more out of Mixmaster anytime, gave me a final hug, whispered against my audials that he would always remember me as I _were_ , then saluted and left.”

 

Ratchet, unsure if he felt mad or _relieved_ at knowing _his_ master had not interfaced that green and purple idiot, was surprised by his master unceremoniously straddling his hips.

 

_What?_

 

“Now. I believe I was earlier talking on how we should reset your bars into green, so we can glide towards the closest fuel source during the night time.”

 

Stuttering as the hands roamed down his chestplates and rested on the sides of his hips, Ratchet glowered at Shockwave, who ignored him and locked both legs behind the sitting mech’s back, wriggling his aft and making himself comfortable.

 

* * *

 

Making himself comfortable, Ramhorn literally dove out of Perceptor’s _working mind_ when it suddenly became too much.

 

The mech was a pool of knowledge! Poor Ramhorn was already tired by the moment the scientist started tapping into the CNA reactions necessary to mingle the triplechanging strands of CNA with his own, once these were properly isolated and replicated ad nausea as well, and could barely wait to see the end results.

 

Would he ever be able to get even close to this performance? Would he become a worthy scientist?

 

Would he help trampling Skyfire’s pride when the moment came by??

 

Hell yeah, yeah and yeah!

 

Currently sitting on his hindquarters and resting against the oddly comfortable presence of a microscope-moded Perceptor, feeling the thrum of cogs turning and processors whirring, Ramhorn, almost lulled into recharge, never noticed the instant his own processors powered down, the other mech’s spark rotating and slowly singing him into sleep.


	46. Sleep tight, don't let the insecticons bite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaster speaks, Nautica and Firestar bond, Ravage scolds, Buzzsaw doesn't care, and Mighty Shockwave has a new problem to mind.

Sung to near _sleep_ by the other mech’s rotating spark, Ratchet actively fought against the recharge that threatened to shut his systems.

  


He had expected to be viciously _ridden_ , not to be given a lethargic, almost _autobot_ -like interface.

  


“Did I ever tell you how much I _hate_ you?”

  


Shockwave, uncaring, remained in place, helm resting against the medic’s shoulder, face hiding at the crook of his neck, optics offline, arms holding him loosely by the red waist.

  


“Three times only in this session.”

  


A full set of _valve_ callipers rippled around his spike, no other significant motion taking place otherwise, as Ratchet, optics flaring bright for an instant, watched the progress bars slowly receding towards the _green_ zone.

  


“Primus, this is _torture_.”

  


“No: this is interfacing.” came Shockwave’s deadpan reply, one slow hip-roll taking place.

  


“ _Boring_ interfacing, you mean. Why can’t you do it like a proper decepticon??” Ratchet spat.

  


A ripple of callipers met him, squeezing very tightly, his own hands flexing against the paddled rotor hub.

  


“I am energy deprived. My current _method_ is the most logical.”

  


The callipers released then gripped back then, a full-body shudder spreading as Ratchet was edged and his own hydraulics twitched, _master’s_ legs keeping him absolutely in place, hilted, red hips moving once up fruitlessly, overload evading him as he hissed against the heliformer’s audials.

  


“You would have plenty of energy if you took one of the cubes your _dearest_ Scavenger gave you.”

  


Charge threatening to fill his systems, Shockwave started a sluggish ripple of port callipers around the edged, dribbling spike.

  


“Wasting a cube is not necessary. According to my calculations your progress bars have already receded into green and you are going to overload _now_.”

  


The barely-there not-touch of mirrored sensors finally tipped him over and Ratchet crashed, optics flaring on, autonomic systems taking over and hands locking the heliformer in place, transfluid greedily sucked inside, not a single drop dribbling out, as the low released charge flowed through Shockwave’s frame, sending him into a silent and brief overload, from which he quickly recovered, taking one single, relevant _note_ :

  


The dreaded contraption in his chest, the _decepticon matrix_ , did not flare to life much less managed to open his chestplates this time.

  


_Interesting._

  


Idly pondering he would have wanted to have a proper lab to go back into researching, Shockwave, energy levels at 36%, optics dimming, barely registered the moment Ratchet slumped ahead and rested his head in his shoulders, making himself comfortable, still buried _inside,_ the duo ready to recharge just like this.

  


* * *

  


“Just like this!! Like _this_!!”

  


Judgelaw rode and literally milked the combaticon’s purple and yellow spike, callipers mercilessly working as he smirked at the con-mech, frilly white wig bouncing on his head as he went up and down, as Swindle underwent a battle of _will_ : unwilling to _give_ anything away, not even his own _transfluid_ , the shady dealer delayed the moment of overload the most he could.

  


_Focus on the wig. The ridiculous wig!!_

  


So far it had worked: the ridiculous bouncing _wig_ had been enough of a distracting sight to prevent him of tipping over the _edge_ , until the moment it wouldn’t be anymore, and he knew the instant was approaching, a tightness coiling deep down his spinal strut, as he sent his right hand towards the burning hot frontal interface panel and palmed it.

“I’m not _giving_ anything without repay!”

  


Afterall, if Swindle would have to give something, he wanted _it_ back too.

  


Judgelaw, blissfully rolling his hips, flashed his best smile and winked his left optic, letting open the other half of his interface panel, revealing a glossy black, red-biolight glowing spike, instantly pressurising right into the con-mech’s waiting hands, charge transferring between the two frames.

  


Cursing as the spike’s charge entered his plating and triggered his own overload, Swindle stalled and gripped the lawyercon’s spike, sending a surge of charge spiking up the all-black plated mech, who also immediately tipped over, dark-tinted, metallic glowing transfluid shooting out and dribbling between the salesmech’s fingers like liquid _silver_.

  


Purple optics wide, Swindle could barely move, the moment Judgelaw picked the con-mech’s hand in his own and led the transfluid-filled fingers tpo his own lips, sucking them.

  


_As if he would let Swindle have any of his own fluids!_

  


Swindle, currently too drowsy to truly _care_ he didn’t have a complete _payback_ , for now idly pondering the white wig actually didn’t look so ridiculous anymore, turned a slow stare at the immobile and uncaring _Mighty Shockwave_ , ignoring their noisy exchange, and pondering the cyclops certainly was a _drone_ to have not noticed them interfacing right under his proverbial _nose._

  


Judgelaw, having _drained_ Swindle dry, and licked his own fluids away, red optics dim, shook the aftershocks and the drowsiness away, recalled they still had a Tower to flee from, pulling the still half-sedate combaticon into a sitting position and approaching his audials, whispering.

  


“Now, _little one_. Are you ready?”

  


* * *

  


“Little one, are you ready?”

  


Perceptor, in microscope mode, actually stopped his equations as he noticed his mind was slightly too silent.

  


Analysing his surroundings, as just like this, under ready recharge, Ramhorn blissfully recharged, laying on a side and dreaming of electric cybersheep, Perceptor insisted.

  


“Ramhorn?”

  


No reply but a loud snore and the rhino shifting on the other side; immediately mass-shifting and transforming into root-mode, Perceptor glared down the tapeling, shaking his head and taking him up in arms.

  


“This is not a good place for recharging, little one.”

  


Intent in taking him to Blaster – which would just be the perfect excuse to talk to him again! - Perceptor was about to leave the lab, the instant no one less than the object of his obsessions himself stepped in.

  


Blinking in surprise as he cradled the recharging tape, Perceptor dipped his head in a respectful nod.

  


“I believe _this_ belongs to you.”

  


He motioned with his optics to the recharging Ramhorn: Blaster, unblinking, merely nodded, extending his hands.

  


“Ramhorn’s past his recharge time. He’s become obsessed in becoming a scientist. Can’t imagine why.”

  


They exchanged the bundle, Perceptor’s hands touching his for three full seconds, optics meeting as Blaster manually folded Ramhorn into tape-mode and opened his tapedeck to fit him inside, not missing the minute widening of the scientist’s optics at the brief sight of the open deck.

  


“You do know he wants an upgrade, don’t you?”

  


He nodded, very aware, his carrier subroutines analysing the microscope-mech before him, resting against the lab’s door frame.

  


“Something about becoming bipedal, getting opposable thumbs and ability of speech in a triplechanging mode. Quite ambitious of his part, if you want me to say.”

  


Perceptor nodded, optics mentally tracing the squareness of the red and yellow _large_ tape deck approvingly.

  


“I am coming close to a solution that will keep both his rhino and tape mode intact. I think you’ll be... _satisfied_ with the results.”

  


Optics instantly dimming, Blaster nodded, stepping into the lab, the door closing behind as Perceptor turned to get the datapad with the project he had already started to modify.

  


“I’m actually surprised to see a creation of _Ironhide_ trying to become more than a mindless shooting brute, no offence intended: I myself quite like _precision_ guns. It’s so anti-functionist to take on more roles than you had been designed for, don’t you think?”

  


Blaster nodded, deciding not to break to the apparent oblivious scientist that it’s been no secret for a while anymore that Ramhorn had no identified sire yet and probably never would have, stepping ahead and now standing shoulder to shoulder with the still speaking scientist and sniper.

  


Listening to the endless speech of how he intended to make the triple-mode work, Blaster zoned out and focused on the tiniest sparklet orbiting around his old, weary spark, pondering on the best way possible to convey this kind of news.

  


“...so, with the CNA sample Ramhorn obtained from Astrotr...”

  


“...I’m just _sparked_ and you’re the _sire_ and you’re expected to comply with sparkmerging _and_ interfacing for the next hundred years or more, then supposed to help raising the bitlet until maturity.”

  


Stalling at the sudden, blunt _declaration_ , Perceptor released the datapad on the desk.

  


“I… beg your pardon??”

  


“I said I’m sparked and you’re...”

  


“I heard that!!!” he immediately grabbed Blaster by both arms, looking slightly up at him. “Are you certain of what you’re saying?”

  


About to get _offended_ , Blaster had no time to retort, getting instantly pushed against the lab’s door and floored with a very eager kiss.

  


“Bond me.” he spoke in the tapedeck’s lips “Primus. Bond me _now_!”

  


* * *

  


_Bond me now._

  


Between the dark recesses of two joined chestplates a pair of blue orbs rotated in binary _conjunction_ , tendrils of light coming from one to the other, electricity crackling in the atmosphere of Cybertron and spreading in a radius through the entwined frames, lips desperately trying to mimicry the merging sparks, in a daze.

  


Purplish hips undulate in a grinding motion against a fire-red thigh, in near slow motion, bared interface panel exposing a purple and dark blue valve, upper node aglow, overload just one grind and one slide away.

  


_Naughty Nautica._

  


Locking both legs behind Firestar’s filling thigh, sucking on her lower lip and strutting her back as both of her fiery companion’s hands grabbed the sides of her hips and held her in place, Nautica crashed in overload.

  


_Set my spark on fire_.

  


Spark spiralling wild and enveloping the other in its own light, Nautica’s mind rippled in a smirk as Firestar’s own EM-field and spark energy flared wide, optics shut down and holding her counterpart, mental pathways clearing up, their innermost energon reserve opening for their permanent bond, their deepest ever sparkmerge, locks clicking lowly like a freshly released newspark.

  


* * *

  


Like a freshly released newspark, a clearly _not-sorry_ Buzzsaw wholly ignored Ravage as he hissed and scolded him.

  


_Who that bird-brain thought he was to break their stealth and just flare his EM-field wide and large like this??_

  


Having landed underneath the canopies as soon as Ravage detected his sibling actively flaring his EM-field, before _Laserbeak_ could have noticed anything and just plain reported Buzzsaw to _carrier_ , the three symbionts now rested on the large tree branches above the ground level.

  


Ravage knew about Buzzsaw’s clear preference for Shockwave, which was why Soundwave tended to deploy the two avians together: Laserbeak was an absolute Megatron loyalist and her presence was supposed to serve as deterrent for their sibling’s potential _treachery._

  


Buzzsaw, aware of Laserbeak’s slightly dim intellect, compared to his own, cleaned his plating pretending not to hear Ravage’s ranting: of course he would give Shockwave any advantage he could, and of course Laserbeak wouldn’t even notice: her lack of intellectual power came precisely from the fact she received a less than ideal amount of spark-energy from Megatron, and Shockwave hadn’t been into _carrier’s_ trinebond until near the end of her sparking cycle, to help.

  


Laserbeak on her side, blissfully unaware, also cleaned her plating, Ravage glumly glowering at nowhere, deciding to try his luck on his own and prowling away on his own in the shadows of the rainforest, pondering on how to solve the current _situation_.

  


* * *

  


Pondering on how to solve the current situation, Prowl, waiting for news on Jazz, was holding his chin with his right hand and thumb, currently staring very focused at a fancy table with the Cybertronian Strategy Map of Earth ®, a battleground map version of Earth with all geographic points of interest showing, miniature versions of every single autobot and decepticon scattered on it.

  


As Inferno and Red Alert equally stared down at the map, all three mechs equally pensive, the very bright and reflexive silvery plated head of Technotor came into view, the Prime’s creation opening a large smile.

  


“Ultra-Gear!!!”

  


Before Prowl could do anything, the shiny mech snatched in hands the Soundwave miniature, converting it into a microcassette recorder, actually pressing play, the _Decepticon Remix_ (from DJ Starscream – google it!) music filling the room, as Red Alert fizzled his finials and Inferno folded arms, and a million of scowling Prowl’s faces reflected in his mirrors, the SIC finally twitching his left optic and _glowering._

  


“Technotor. This is not a toy.”

  


Getting solemnly ignored as the minibot jammed to the song, Prowl actually _sighed,_ and about to snatch the miniature back, stopped dead on his tracks as his personal comm ringed.

  


* * *

  


Personal comm ringing on his desk station, _Mighty Shockwave_ literally jumped out of his seat as his datapads scattered to the ground.

  


“Aw, shit!”

  


Kneeling down and grumbling as he awkwardly caught the datapads in arms, the comm rang again.

  


“First!!”

  


Silence: the comm rang once more.

  


“First!!!”

  


As the absence of his faithful drone stretched and the ringing comm finally died, _Mighty Shockwave_ started visually searching for it, until his single optic zoomed into the offline, lonely First, deadly still in the middle of the room.

  


Optic cycling wide, datapads falling to the ground once more, Mighty Shockwave did nothing but _stare_ , as behind him, the paint-transfer littered, transfluid-stained Swindle and Judgelaw both seized the opportunity and scurried away towards the door to the spacebridge in the background.


	47. Cat people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironhide tries to be the voice of reason, Swindle is outraged, someone chimes the autobot female's door, Skywarp for once is right, and Ravage found what he was looking for.

Scurrying _in_ through the door on the background entrance of the Ark, Ironhide made sure to remain between Elita-1 and the Prime, one hand holding each of their forearms by the wrists, like a carrier would do to a pair of rambunctious creations.

 

Recalling how they had been photographed and recorded by human media all the way from the sinkhole, the arms specialist smirked widely at the memory of human-manned vehicles screeching tires and running away the instant he glowered at them and raised his chainguns up.

 

“Ironhide. Stop smiling. You’re doing it again. You shouldn’t feel _proud_ of scaring the humans.”

 

Taken out of his thoughts, he squinted at his right to the Prime, immediately wincing then grimacing at the _snort_ that came from his left.

 

“In thinking I have been bearing his overly paternalistic _attitude_ on my own for millennia! Being witness to it for once is so much more _fun_!”

 

“Elita...”

 

Optimus gave her a weary look, the _royal_ consort immediately starting to poke him in the chestplates with all the back appendages of her brave new alt mode, the _couple_ suddenly exchanging cybertronian clicks and whirs in the middle of the corridor.

 

Before the Prime and his bonded degenerated from _glowering_ _and growling_ into a catfight, Ironhide strongly gripped on their forearms and dragged them through the corridors towards the Prime’s very own private quarters, chiming in his _security_ override and unceremoniously shoving them in, following behind and slamming the door shut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Slamming the door shut, Onslaught made sure to lock it before he walked to Knock-Out and dialled down the stasis-cuffs to a minimum.

 

“You will fix Vortex and install a functional array _or_ I will be tempted to take away yours.”

 

Looking up the hulking brute, Knock-Out eschanged a brief glare with Hot-Rod, who shrugged: like they had another option.

 

Vortex, thrumming with energy on the operating table, refused anaesthetics and waited eagerly for the painful procedure to come, almost giggling: nothing like being subject to a pair of skilled hands intent in making him suffer, in that good way only a medic knows how to do.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m a _medic._ I know how to do it. Now lay still, the painkillers will soon take effect and I’ll start the operation.”

 

“But but.” Jazz spoke, nervousness coming out of him in waves as he stared at the generic blue visor First Aid had in hands “How will I be sure the replacement visor will work? Will it access all my functions? Will it give me temperature readings, x-ray vision, view-in-the-dark features, access to a mech’s level of fear, and ultimately allow me to access my files with an eye blink?”

 

First Aid immediately stalled.

 

“...did your other visor do all of _this_?”

 

Jazz, meekly shrugging, flashed a smirk.

 

“...nope, but'a mech can'hope, right?”

 

As First Aid merely blinked, Blades finally snapped out of his _punishment_ of sorting replacement hands by type and size class and came to the berth with a hand in hands, poking Jazz in the chest repeatedly.

 

“Stop being a _smartaft_ and stay put now!”

 

* * *

 

“Stay put now!!!”

 

The door slammed shut on his face and Technotor pouted: having been expelled out of the Strategy Room by a very furious Prowl, he glared down at the _transformed_ Soundwave miniature for a full second.

 

“At least he forgot I got you! We’re having so much fun now, aren’t we, evil _Blaster_ -looking guy?”

 

Instantly the door opened and _Prowl_ unceremoniously picked the tapedeck-transformed toy as Technotor gaped, dipping his head in a nod.

 

“Excuse-me.”

 

Blinking, surprised and outraged, Technotor stared at his empty hand as Prowl flashed a wide smirk and locked the door back.

 

* * *

 

 

Locking the door, Ironhide had shoved both mechs in a sitting position by the feet of Optimus’ very large, autobot-red meshed berth with a _whoomp_ , and now glowered at them, sternly.

 

He recalled Optimus’ wholly surprised glare, and Elita’s smirk, from before, both now replaced by something _new_ he was not paying attention to, because he was too mad at their sparklet behaviour to care.

 

As such, ignoring their matching,  _dark_ demeanour, and the pair of optics sizing him up and down, Ironhide _snapped_ , pointing his scratched and roughed out hand at each of their faces.

 

“For Primus sake, I’m tired of you two feuding and exchanging insults like two newly released sparklets! What do you have to say in your defence?”

 

* * *

 

_What do I have to say in my defence?_

 

“I’m so _guilty_.”

 

The lawyercon purred, walking with Swindle through the timeless walk of the spacebridge, remote-control in hands, able to control the flow of _time_ and observing the infinite possible doorways as time flew slowly to the point of nearly stopping, and Swindle rolled his optics.

 

“I did not forget you _took_ that purple transfluid sticking out of your _plating_ from me and I will want to be repaid back.”

 

“Boo-hoo-hooo. _Twinkle_ did not _profit_ from a transaction. Sue me!”

 

“It’s _Swindle_!” he groaned “And I would if you weren’t the _last_ Lawyercon.”

 

Judgelaw flashed a side smirk then, winking.

 

“I only charge 20% for _service_. According to my calculations you actually _owe_ me.”

 

Swindle blinked stupidly then, as Judgelaw flashed a few portal destinies before his optics, unable to decide on one.

 

“Hey. I’m the only one here who _pimps_. Everybody in the base knows it.” he recalled _Vortex_ “How dare you pimp yourself to me without _asking_ for my permission.”

 

Suddenly letting go an _aha!_ , the Lawyercon waved a hand towards the greenish swirling gateway, inviting his unwilling companion in.

 

* * *

 

Inviting his unwilling _companion_ in, Skywarp actually waved a hand towards the inside of his very empty quarters.

 

“You see it? They aren’t here.”

 

Megatron, having been dragged by the seeker against his will through nearly half a ship, shook his head.

 

“Skywarp. How many times do I have to tell you I don’t _care_.”

 

Looking hurt for a moment, Skywarp rushed to the berth, raising the standard decepticon-purple mesh.

 

“But. The berth is the way I left it when I came out of the room looking for TeeCee. He never returned.”

 

Megatron sighed, not really wanting to be there. He was so tired that all he wanted was to collapse and go to recharge again, unable to understand why he was feeling so mentally drained.

 

“I told you. Starscream is an exhibitionist glitch. They are probably fragging somewhere very public in the ship and amassing an audience while they are at it.”

 

At that, Skywarp’s face lit up, and he captured Megatron’s wrist, pulling the unresisting tyrant out and blabbering about getting to the security room to check up in the cameras to see if they could find where they went.

 

* * *

 

“Can we find where they went?”

 

Chromia shook her head.

 

“I never had any kind of bond to Firestar, so she is untraceable as it is.”

 

Arcee, back with Chromia and Moonracer on their not-so-hidden-anymore hideout, nodded: they had no idea on where the two _brides_ left once they got out of the bonding ceremony, and knowing the dangers of Cybertron, they had a very grim prospect of never seeing them again.

 

“You know, we could always ask for the help of a certain _cyclops_.”

 

Moonracer widened her optics, as Arcee smashed a fist on the table.

 

“What, are we just walking to his _Tower_ and asking that he puts his drone army into finding them?”

 

At that the door chimed, and as Arcee growled and Chromia facepalmed, Moonracer literally jumped to it.

 

“Hi!!!”

 

* * *

 

“Hi!”

 

Ratchet came out of recharge slowly, taking a shameful amount of time to gather his bearings together, and stopped very still thinking he saw a dark-grey datacable inching close.

 

Fully focusing his blue optics on the cable, he finally met Microtron’s giant cycling optic, the _kid_ standing up behind his master, staring back, tilting his head and waving a _hello_ with the datacable.

 

Taking on his position and realising he was still _buried_ deep into the port, having fallen under recharge just like _this,_ he depressurised his spike back and closed his own plating, for once amazed with the _autobot_ female port for not letting out a single drop of transfluid, and very glad for not having a complete mess to clean up.

 

Summing then all the energy he still had, Ratchet raised his right hand to hold Shockwave’s head close and whispered.

 

“ _Master._ Guess who is out of recharge.”

 

Shockwave, unfazed, onlining, taking a second to understand his port was empty and clicking it closed, turned his head to meet Microtron in a silent staring match for three full seconds, finally asking.

 

“Since when are you there?”

 

_What did you see?_

 

Microtron lead a datacable to the base of his fuel intake and tapped twice, pensive.

 

“I’s been a few hours you were recharging. I tried not calling, but… it’s getting dark. I’m scared. And going _hungry_.”

 

Shockwave nodded, in understanding, finally leaving Ratchet’s lap and turning to the mechling.

 

“It is now late enough for us to gather crude fuel. The fuel site is close enough that we can walk there.”

 

Microtron beamed, jumping into Shockwave’s arms and holding himself firmly through datacables against the huge protruding _bosom_ , clicking and purring against it.

 

Detachedly nodding to his creation yet not helping him stay up, very glad he had the handy appendages and did not require any of his hands to be busy to be kept in arms, Shockwave triangulated his mental map of the area and chose a direction, disappearing between the leaves and the trees with the finesse of a strolling pack of african buffaloes, as Ratchet sighed and merely followed behind, a pair of golden optics glowing minutely from the canopies above.


	48. Scream and Shout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravage strikes down, Swindle gets swindled again, medics show their prowess, Soundwave gets aid and Mighty Shockwave asks for help.

From above the canopies, pain and mayhem flew right into Shockwave’s battlemask and face.

  


Fangs digging into the mask’s armour as the four claws held him in place, Ravage made sure not to let go: sending Laserbeak a ping of his location, it would only be a matter of time before he had Soundwave making sure Skywarp _warped_ him here so that the recapture of Shockwave would take place.

  


Releasing a static blurt as the symbiont’s fangs dug through his vocoder underneath the mask and literally _mut_ _ed_ him, suddenly unable to emit a single cry or request for help, Shockwave literally ripped Microtron off his frame, two datacables fizzling wildly and without control as they clung to his frame and were plucked out of their sockets at his own creation’s rotating back hub, processed fluid flowing out of the empty connections in pulses.

  


As the mechling blurted static, instinctively trying to clutch against the holes in his back with his claws with no success, Shockwave, now half-blind as Ravage ripped out one of his optics with a claw, flung his his damaged creation at the medic, hoping to have gotten the message across that he wanted the slave to immediately run away.

  


Ratchet, torn between the damage warnings coming from both _master_ and the mechling now in his arms, immediately turned a hand into a solder and without any sort of anaesthetics, eliciting a pained wail from the little cyclops, just fused the open gauges in Microtron’s back, stopping the processed fluid flow finally giving Shockwave a quick glance before taking the expected, _logical_ , decision.

  


* * *

  


Taking the expected, logical decision was easy enough, as soon as Prowl finished receiving the comm line from no one less than _Nurse_ _Blades_ _-_ and wasn’t that a surprise to see the mad helicopter following orders for once! - that Jazz had been cleared out of surgery and was trying to leave without permission.

  
  


As such, feeling like being an aft just because he _could_ , Prowl had absolutely no qualms against keeping certain rebellious newsparks away from his prized tactical board, so, placing with eerie calm the Soundwave miniature back into the board under the worried glare of Red Alert and Inferno, the SIC finally excused himself and went to the medbay, arms folded, looking down a clearly amused Jazz, who immediately spoke.

  


“Heya, Prowler. I’d recognise yer mad, sulkin’, outraged EM-field anywhere.”

  


Blinking his new, fashionable _visor_ on and off, flaring it suddenly with multiple colours in a kaleidoscopic haze, Jazz finally winked one side of it back into default blue, as Prowl simply _glowered._

  


“What is _that._ ”

  


“It’s a fancy party mod! I gotch’t from’ _Swindle_.”

  


“Then it’s an _illegal_ mod.”

  


Jazz shrugged.

  


“The visor works, ma’mech. I can’even see bene’th yer armour!”

  


Getting suddenly slapped in the face, Jazz yelped, as a wrench flew right into Prowl’s head.

  


“You won’t ruin my first work as _Chief Medical Officer First Aid_!” he walked past the _very_ surprised Prowl and caught the wrench back “This is a harmless modification, it properly functions and even does a few _extra,_ and it will stay!”

  


* * *

  


“This is a harmless modification, it properly functions and even does a few _extra,_ and it will stay!”

  


Onslaught squinted at Knock-Out, who folded arms, feeling particularly offended, as Brawl fidgeted with his hands, both staring at the exposed, brave-new, just installed _array_ between Vortex widespread legs.

  


“It isn’t looking that bad, boss! Lookit! It glows!”

  


Hot-Rod nodded in approval: Vortex, still tripping in the post-surgical, painful haze, had no idea yet the array was even installed, and he frankly didn’t care, as long as he could still be pimped and used without a single ounce of respect, and obviously, would be able to hack mechs and access their files like a proper interrogator could.

  


“How is he going to _interrogate_ without a modified spike?”

  


Knock-Out, having learned his craft from the _best_ , just smirked and captured a _fake_ spike, lubricating it and slowly inserting it at the _valve_ mod as Vortex _writhed_ and whined, taking Onslaught’s hand and placing it at the end of the contraption.

  


“Hold it in place.”

  


Going to Vortex’s audials then, under Onslaught’s watchful glower, he whispered.

  


“Now. Do it. _Lockdown_.”

  


* * *

  


“Lockdown? _Lockdown???_ ”

  


Judgelaw, the lawyercon, just out of the green swirling portal, was followed by a very angry Swindle back into Earth, at the Combaticon Base in Guadalcanal.

  


“Why not? It sounds better than _Swingle_.”

  


“It’s _Swindle_!!!”

  


“Whatever. Unlike you, I have the Juridical Permission to alter my own denomination. Besides, I always wanted to become a bounty hunter...”

  


He then turned a stasis-gun right before Swindle’s now pallid face and equally dismaying optics.

  


“...and an Intergalactic Mod Collector. I’m glad I can begin by just plain taking everything that was ever yours.”

  


The gun’s pulse zimmed loudly then, ready to shoot.

  


* * *

 

  


Zimming loudly, the _pulse_ hit, readily spreading a dampening field around a radius, instantly knocking-out Ravage, about to claw out Shockwave’s remaining optic, and the heliformer himself, both collapsing immobile on the ground.

  


Very aware that where Ravage was, Soundwave soon would be, Ratchet simply released Shockwave’s creation down and walked to his _master_ , pushing the knocked-out Ravage aside and immediately assessing damage.

  


Right optic beyond repair, hanging out of socket with fluid dribbling, left one scratched, requiring a cosmetic glass repair, battlemask ripped out exposing one old grey scar and now a fresh claw mark plus a split lip, Ratchet just shook his head, taking the similarly knocked-out Shockwave over one shoulder, adjusting his hydraulics for the weight and turning to Microtron.

  


“Can you climb up? I expect you have a load of leftover cables?”

  


Still aching from the crude soldering he had been submitted to, collecting his now lost datacables for the potential leftover processed energon in them, Microtron nodded, released four cables out of the ten left in the hub, quickly scanned the area for all spilled energon and started to vacuum the ground with them, finally pulling himself up in Ratchet’s back.

  


Literally kicking Ravage out of sight and making sure to destroy his trail as he walked out, Ratchet focused on the direction they were following earlier: fuel was still a requirement and he had to keep Shockwave online if he wanted to never belong to _Soundwave_.

  


* * *

  


Soundwave instantly knew the moment Ravage was knocked out by the field dampener: it muted the carrier-creation spark-link, rendering their mutual bond blocked, and there was only one forged unit he knew had it in function on Earth, and his name was _Ratchet._

  


Still dazed on his struts however, sending a direct spark ping to Laserbeak, he got back the news that Ravage left on his own and had just sent her a request for help, but she had no idea on how to find him, for the next instant his continuous spark pulse was muted, and that she was very glad _carrier_ called back, because Buzzsaw was being _difficult_ and stubborn again!

  


Getting instantly Buzzsaw’s even, flat, _Shockwave-like_ ping telling he was _not_ _being difficult_ , rolling his optics under the visor, Soundwave stood up, as soon as he regained balance, determined to comm for _Skywarp_ to get VOPed to Laserbeak’s coordinates.

  


Suddenly, the world cracked around them and a _VOP_ echoed on his audials, filling the room, a _lapful_ of the warping buffoon just falling on his arms in bridal style, followed by his beloved _leader_ and mate Megatron showing up literally _aft_ on the ground.

  


Blinking stupidly as Skywarp _giggled_ , Megatron, feeling very _abused_ as he looked up from his position, stood up and flung the seeker out of his mate’s arms: Soundwave, deciding Skywarp was harmless and loyal enough, decided not to get paranoid at them being together for once, dipping his head in a respectful nod to his leader.

  


“Lord Megatron: enjoying a _ride_?”

  


Growling, clearly unamused after having been subjected to successive VOP’s around the ship (because Skywarp insisted on trying to convince him that _Thundercracker’s_ silence was worrisome enough), Megatron literally dusted off his frame from purplish sparkling powder from the alteration of the fabric of space, and spat.

  


“You will put your spies to locate Thundercracker or I will make sure Skywarp remains as _your_ personal, constant fixture and _permanent_ aide for the next hundred megacycles!”

  


Soundwave, minutely stalling as he processed what he heard, made sure to remain with his EM-field absolutely reigned in: Thundercracker was as dazed and under mind control as the five constructicons he captured and even Starscream himself, all of them kept out of the way while he searched for the runaway Shockwave, Microtron and a certain _autobot_ medic.

  


As such, taking the only decision he could, since he could _not_ fail at finding Thundercracker the moment he put himself to the chase, he instantly walked to the seeker and turned to Lord Megatron.

  


“Soundwave: will take aide.”

  


“ _WHAT?_ ”

  


Skywarp blinked, alternating his glare between the outraged Megatron and the stoic Soundwave, slowly fidgeting with his hands as Soundwave droned.

  


“Soundwave: will not waste time searching for Starscream’s trinemate: reason: no interest in walking on Starscream and Thundercracker _fragging_.”

  


Skywarp was about to stutter in protest as Megatron turned to him with a _I told you so_ glare, then immediately sagged, turning to Soundwave with a very dejected glare.

  


“What do you need my aid for?”

  


* * *

 

 

“What do you need our aid for?”

  


Arcee folded arms and looked up at Mighty Shockwave, just leaving a huge tank followed by hundreds of his screen-faced drones, bringing in arm and gun-arm…

  


“My _First-_ drone is offline for no apparent reason and I can’t seem to bring him back.”

  


He glumly deposed the turned off _First_ into Arcee, Chromia and Moonracer’s pedes, as the three looked down, then up to meet the single optic.

  


Chromia gaped and Moonracer, circling around the drone, quickly spotted the huge, unmistakable ON/OFF button in the back of the drone’s neck, instantly poking her and pointing at it.

  


Arcee, arms folded, also _stared_ at said button, instantly _understood_ what happened and immediately squinted and defiantly looked up the cyclops.

  


“You. You, the _Mighty Shockwave_ , the Amoral, the Mad Scientist, the Master of Drones, the _inventor of the cortical psychic patch_ , the creator of the Seeker Army, the developer of the Space Bridge, the Cloner of Predacons, the Spark-Splitter, the Collector of Corpses, First-Spawn of Unicron. You are telling me you _can’t_ seem to turn your own drone back on.”

  


Mighty Shockwave meekly nodded. Arcee cleared her vocaliser.

  


“Coincidentally. We are under a predicament too. As it is, both Firestar and Nautica disappeared during the failed bonding ceremony. Something to do with that incompetent lawyercon of yours trying to behead them with that ceremonial sword.”

  


Mighty Shockwave nodded, recalling the brides and the fact that lawyercon wasn’t even _his_ , as Arcee continued.

  


“So, Mighty Shockwave. We might have go into agreement. We will help turning your drone back online, but you have to promise to put that beautiful drone army of yours into finding our mates. Deal?”


End file.
